Name of the Game
by GoddessLaughs
Summary: Summer has turned into autumn and wounds have faded into scars. But peace never lasts for long. Conclusion to Waiting Game and Game of Chance
1. Chapter 1

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Welcome to Name of the Game! This is the conclustion to both Waiting Game and Game of Chance, so if you haven't read either of them, this probably won't make much sense. Thanks to both Kizume A.W. and MKOLO for the beta as well as Sith Happens for the input.  
**Nifty Fact for the Day: **_Riamh _is Gaelic for 'never' . . . it just_ sounds _final, doesn't it?_

o(1)o

_He was back in their old apartment building, kneeling on the filthy floor cradling Maire in his arms. Blood was everywhere; spattered in his hair, coating his hands and arms and soaking into the denim of his jeans. It seeped between his fingers as he mashed a hand against the ragged hole the bullet had torn through Maire's body and it flowed across the floor in tiny rivers. _

_He screamed her name, shaking her, pleading with her to stay with him, to hang on just a little longer until help arrived. But help wasn't coming. He was too late. Her head lolled gruesomely to one side, clear gray eyes already going cloudy and dull. _

_She wasn't breathing. _

_He was standing in a hotel lobby, surrounded by the dead and dying. All around him was the coppery stench of blood and under that, the more subtle scent of death and decay. His bare feet squelched through unseen puddles of gore as he tried to make his way out of this hell, but the countless bodies grappled for his ankles. Sharp fingers dug into his skin, tripping him, keeping him from escaping. _

_They spoke to him, guttural noises laced with dark blood that dribbled down their chins and onto the carpeting. He couldn't understand the words, but their meaning was unmistakable. _

_They wanted revenge. _

_He was surrounded by broken glass and rushing water, his twin kneeling before him, face sorrowful, hands hanging limply by his sides. Horrified, he stared down at his brother, unwilling to believe what he was seeing. _

_Blood spilled from the gunshot between Murphy's eyes, making crimson tear tracks down his pale cheeks, and dripping off into the deluge of water where it bloomed into tiny roses and then faded away. Rolling his eyes up to meet Connor's gaze, Murphy's voice was soft and anguished. _

_"What have you done?" _

_Bewildered, Connor looked down. The gun was in his hands. _

_"No," he choked, dropping the weapon and falling to his knees. He pulled Murphy into his arms, supporting his twin gently, "No, no, God, Murphy, no. Oh God, no." _

_"_In nomine patris_," Murphy whispered, his voice suddenly rasping and hollow. It was the voice of someone that had been dead for a long time, tongue half rotted away and vocal cords dried into strips of thin leather. "_et fili ,et spiritus sancti_." _

_The flooded bathroom suddenly stank of wet earth and decay. The once clear water turned murky and Connor could feel tiny, unseen things slithering and skittering over him. Horrified, he scrabbled to his feet trying to drag what was left of his dead twin with him. _

_"I'm so sorry," he cried. "Please forgive me." _

_Turning flat, lifeless eyes up to him, Murphy's corpse tilted its head slightly, a grotesque mockery of the expression his brother had used so often in life. _

_"Riamh," it hissed, slipping out of his grasp and pitching forward into the water and muck and vile crawling things. Never._

He knew they were dreams. Just dreams, nothing more. He should have been able to open his eyes and banish the images with a cigarette and the comforting sound of his twin's soft snores. But he couldn't. They held him tightly in their thrall, and he couldn't break away.

_Never_.

Connor awoke with a start, tangled in his bed sheets, unable to move.

Too close, everything was closing in on him. Too close. Too close.

He was trapped.

Blind in the darkness, swearing and struggling, he tore the sodden linens away from his body, unmindful of the sound of the fabric ripping as he did. As he thrashed, his fist connected with something solid and he heard a loud oath, Murphy's voice.

"Fuck!"

Connor's head snapped around as his brother staggered backward, bringing a hand to his face, eyes wide in the dim moonlight that filtered through the window. Even in the muted light, he could see the blackness that was now seeping through Murphy's fingers.

Was he still dreaming? Blood flowed down Murphy's features, his brother's lifeless eyes staring at him, accusingly. "No –" his shoulders hitched andfear washed through him, flooding him with nausea, "--No." _Never._

Crimson blood against pale skin.

His fault, all his fault, oh, God.

"Connor, open your eyes, look at me." Murphy's tone was low but firm, closer now. A warm hand cupped the back of his neck. "Ye need ta wake up."

The blood-spattered afterimages of his dreams pressed into him relentlessly, without mercy, making bile rise in the back of his throat. He felt sick; he was going to be sick . . .

"Easy now," Murphy's eyes were clear and full of concern, and Connor could hear the quiet sound of his breathing, a little faster than normal, but steady. _Alive_.

"Listen ta me now, and just breathe for a sec," his twin soothed, fingers curling around the base of his skull. "Ye're all right."

Relief swept through him, so potent it was painful. Just dreams, nothing more.

His heartbeat beginning to slow and his stomach settling, Connor swung his legs over the edge of the daybed and mashed a hand against his face, tears and sweat smearing under his palm.

"Damnit," he muttered into his palms, dimly aware of Murphy giving him much needed space. After a moment, when he was sure that he was in control of his body, he looked up, seeing the blood that was leaking from his twin's nose. Unfortunately _that_ hadn't been a dream.

"Christ," he said, reaching toward where his brother was standing "here, let me have a look at ye."

Stemming the blood flow with his shirt, Murphy batted his hands away. "I'm fuckin' fine," he said impatiently. "Ye think that by now I'd have learned ta give ye your girth."

Crimson tracks on pale skin. Another shudder coursed through Connor, making his skin prickle into gooseflesh. He swore softly, clenching a fist into his hair, and tried to will the image away. He failed, and his stomach lurched in retaliation.

Murphy frowned at him, annoyed expression turning to one of compassion. "That was worse than the usual," he said quietly. It wasn't a question.

Swallowing hard, Connor nodded unable to meet his twin's gaze, unable to look at the blood that was soaking into the fabric of Murphy's shirt.

_Never. _

He could hear Murphy moving around the room, the rustle of fabric and the sound of a drawer opening. When he looked again, his brother was clad in a clean shirt. Connor offered him a wordless look of thanks, not bothering to wonder how Murphy knew.

Giving him a gentle nudge, his twin inclined his head toward the door, reaching for the package of cigarettes and lighter resting on their nightstand. "C'mon."

Night after night it was the same routine: violent nightmares followed by a desperately needed cigarette. Sometimes, he awoke first, the soothing sound of Murphy's breathing drowned out by his heartbeat as it thundered in his ears. On these nights he smoked alone, trembling in one of Danae's patio chairs, leaving his brother sleeping soundly inside the apartment.

More often than not, however, he would find that Murphy was already awake, waiting for him. Or, on nights like tonight, his brother would be the one to guide him out of whatever gore-splattered torment he had been lost in, and back to the safety of the real world.

Sometimes, he wondered if his twin actually slept at all anymore, or if all Murphy's evenings were spent watching over him.

The night was chilly, the last days of fall starting to fade into winter. A cool breeze blew, drying the tears and sweat on Connor's face, and soothing the raw, ragged feeling of his nerves.

Beside him, Murphy swore quietly as he lit a cigarette, bouncing a little to keep warm.

"It's fuckin' freezing out here."

Connor nodded absently, flicking his lighter to life. His hands were still shaking as he lit his own cigarette. "Think it'll snow?"

"Too early yet," Murphy replied.

Another gust of wind blew and Connor closed his eyes against it, bowing his head. "Fuckin' nightmares are going ta be the death of me," he said softly.

Remaining silent, Murphy looked thoughtfully out at the unlit parking lot and daubed at the last of the blood on his face. He took a deep drag from his cigarette, making the cherry flare in the darkness, and blew a flawless ring of smoke. They both watched as it faded away. "Aye," he said at last.

Connor kept his tone carefully nonchalant, "Think they'll ever get better?" _Please tell me it'll get better, _he pleaded his brother silently_, please. _

"Ye know I do," Murphy replied, "ye're sleepin' through the night a lot more now."

It was true. He had gone as long as four days without waking in the grip of some hellish vision. And on the nights he did dream, it was only two or three times, a vast improvement over the summer.

And that had to count for something, didn't it?

Somehow, standing on Danae's patio, the concrete icy under his feet, a cigarette burning down to the filter between his fingers, Connor wasn't so sure. This was only his first trip outside to smoke and the morning was still hours away.

With the night stretching endlessly before him, it was tempting to simply find a book and forgo sleep for the rest of the night.

Or maybe, the rest of his life.

He sighed heavily at the thought and Murphy shot him a sideways glance, arching an eyebrow.

"Want ta see if there's anything good on the telly?" his twin asked, "I think it's about time for that show ye like, the one with the detective?"

Despite his grim mood, Connor chuckled, "You hate that fuckin' show."

Shrugging, Murphy sent another smoke ring drifting out into the darkness, "It's starting ta grow on me."

"Ye're such a fuckin' liar."

His brother tried to look offended at the insult, but then snorted, bobbing his head in agreement. "Aye, I do hate that fuckin' show."

o()o

Stepping through the front door, Danae slipped the bag from her shoulder and sat it down on the living room floor with a grateful sigh, shivering slightly from the cold.

The living room was lit by the soft glow of the television, some infomercial for the next greatest thing in vacuum cleaners being mutually ignored by both sleeping MacManus brothers.

Danae glanced between them as she shrugged out of her jacket.

Connor was slouched in her recliner, the remote control clutched in his hand. The tiny muscle in his jaw flexed rhythmically and his face was troubled.

Murphy was curled up on the couch, snoring softly, his fingers twitching every so often, energetic even though he was sleeping soundly. She frowned at the bruise on his face; there was no doubt that it would be a black eye in the morning.

It must have been a bad night.

It was becoming a rare event that she would come home to find Connor on the patio after a sleepless night, cigarette burning between his fingers after a sleepless night, but there was no mistaking the darkening circles that were under his eyes or the exhaustion that still bent his frame.

For all he seemed to be healing, Danae was more worried about Connor than she'd ever admit.

Turning off the TV, she pulled two soft, cozy-looking, blankets out of her storage chest, taking a moment to enjoy their warmness before unfolding them. She settled the first one over Connor and pulled the recliner out to a more comfortable position.

"It's just me," she murmured when he started to stir, body tensing.

Connor's brow furrowed for a moment, and then he muttered something unintelligible, his features then smoothing out as he settled back to sleep.

The second blanket she tucked securely around Murphy, smiling as he sprawled out under its warmth, stretching. Leaning down to press a kiss against his cheek, she was surprised when he turned his head unexpectedly. Their lips collided and she felt him smile as his arms went around her waist, pulling her nearer to him and tossing the blanket over them both.

_Faker,_ she thought, returning the kiss.

"Mornin'," he murmured.

"It's early yet, you should go back to sleep."

"I've been awake," he replied, reaching up to pull the pencil out of her hair, sending a dark mess tumbling over her shoulder. " Conn was startin' ta get restless again."

She moved to rise, turning her head to look at Connor, but Murphy tightened his embrace, keeping her close. "He's all right now."

"You can't even see him," she protested.

"Don't have ta see him," he tapped his temple lightly, giving her an odd half smile. "How was the night? Anything fun?"

She shrugged, replaying the night in her mind. There had been the usual array of coughs and sore throats, a couple of minor accidents from the nearby factory, a chest pain, a broken finger . . . "We had a guy with magnets stuck up his nose," she offered finally.

Murphy raised an eyebrow, "Go on outta that."

"I'm serious, he was showing off for his kids and they somehow ended up sticking together through the middle of his nose," she chuckled softly, "they were even the flashing kind."

Beneath her, Murphy snorted, his hands dancing across her back as he drew senseless designs over the fabric of her sweater, "Christ, the things people do."

"Don't I know it," Danae said and rested her head against his chest, relaxing under his touch and listening to the steady sound of his heartbeat. She shouldn't pry; what happened between Murphy and Connor was their business. It wasn't polite to . . .

"Are you okay?" She asked, abruptly losing her battle with decorum and skimming her fingertips over the bruise that marred his face.

"Aye, fine." His hands never paused in their expedition across her back.

"Are you sure? I can get you some ice."

"I'm _fine_," he repeated, brushing a strand of hair away from her temple and tucking it behind her ear. "I wouldn't be much of a man if I couldn't take a fuckin' clatter from my own brother."

Looking away, Danae nodded, unwilling to let him see how uneasy the injury made her. Not. Her. Business.

But Murphy knew better, he knew _her_ better. "Ye fuckin' worry too much," he said, ducking his head to give her an earnest look.

"Somebody has to," she murmured to herself and felt the vibration of his chuckle.

"Aye."

"I think I'm going to bed, it was a long night"

Murphy slipped a hand under her sweater, moving to skate his fingers over her skin, the formerly relaxing gesture now anything but. "Want a bit o' company?"

Looking up, she offered him a wry smile.

"Maybe."

o()o


	2. Chapter 2

o()o

_**Author's Note: **I'm loving how many familiar faces I'm seeing! I missed you guys and it's so awesome to hear from everyone out there in PCLand.  
Thanks to Kizume A.W. and Archerlove for the beta-y goodness and to MKOLO for the brainstorming. You guys rock my socks! _  
_**Nifty Fact for the Day:** The book Connor is reading to Maire is 'The English Patient', it's a great story._

o(2)o

The morning dawned cold and clear, waking Connor with an unsympathetic ray of sunlight.

Frowning, he burrowed deeper into the depths of his blanket, trying to escape. His sleep had been deep and blessedly dreamless, and he wasn't ready to relinquish it just yet.

Connor was more stubborn than most when he wanted to be, but today the daylight seemed more determined than usual as it painted images on the backs of his eyelids, dragging him further into wakefulness.

Blinking hard, tattooed hand rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he gave the open shades a disparaging look and finally gave in.

"Right bastard mornin' ye are," he huffed. But the sunlight didn't seem to care, shining on incessantly.

Stretching with a yawn, already knowing that returning to sleep wasn't going to be an option, he debated on what he wanted more, breakfast or a cigarette. Regrettably, both of them required leaving the warmth of the recliner behind.

After a moment, his need for nicotine won out. _Smoke, then eggs,_ he thought, pulling the blanket a little closer around him. He rose to his feet and wiggled his foot to work out the dull ache in his leg.

Pulling a slightly squashed pack of cigarettes from his pocket, Connor retrieved a single smoke and laid the rest of the pack on the end table for when Murphy woke up.

He stepped out onto the patio with a shiver and flicked his lighter to life, cupping his hand around the end of a cigarette, his thoughts returning to breakfast.

_Maybe some fried tomatoes too._

o()o

Connor cracked two eggs into the skillet, and after a moment's pause, added three more, giving them all a good scramble and a generous dash of salt.

Cooking had turned out to be an unexpectedly soothing task, the actions giving him something to concentrate on without actually thinking about anything.

There was no question that he would never be a master chef; there had been a lot of foul language, a dozen ruined eggs, and a small fire when Murphy had tried to teach him to make omelets. But the basics were proving easy enough to do.

And eggs tasted just fine scrambled if you asked Connor.

Turning his attention to the tomatoes sitting on Danae's counter, he sliced two in half and dropped the sections into another pan. They landed with a satisfying sizzle and he nudged them gently with his spatula, scooting them around in circles and through the small puddles of oil that had gathered in the bottom of the skillet.

Breakfast before church was a family tradition that had started well before he and Murphy were a part of the world and would probably continue long after they had left it.

Sunday mornings always found their home in Ireland full of relatives, all talking over one another, gesturing with forks and slices of toast, and catching up on what had happened the previous week.

Although it was just his brother and him now, the custom had followed them both to America. Whether it was Murphy, dragging a bleary-eyed, hungover, and often narky, Connor out of bed, or the other way around, there was never a shortage of food or conversation on Sunday mornings. 

There was the sound of familiar footfalls behind him and Connor smiled. His brother was nothing if not predictable.

"Is it yourself?" he asked, inclining his head slightly in greeting, not bothering to turn around.

Murphy mumbled something incomprehensible and then swore as his footsteps faltered. Connor glanced over his shoulder to see his twin, hair sticking out wildly, frowning down at an offending kitchen tile.

"Fuckin' feet," Murphy groused to himself, and then to him: "Right bastard morning."

"T'is, aye," agreed Connor.

Coming to lean against the counter, Murphy hefted the coffee pot sitting next to him and eyed it warily. "Did ye make this, or did Danae?"

"Danae made it."

Murphy grimaced and held the pot further away from himself, "Too fuckin' early for that."

Chuckling, Connor nodded. "I tried ta make myself a cuppa earlier and had ta toss it out, the shite could've probably run a fuckin' car."

"She was pretty tired when she got home, said it was a long night." Pouring the dark liquid down the drain, his twin made a face, "Christ, I think it's eatin' away at the sink."

Connor snorted and turned his attention back to the stove, jabbing at the eggs as they began to set up.

After a moment, the smell of fresh coffee filled the air and Murphy looked over his shoulder, eyebrow raised.

"Eggs and tomato," he said, answering his twin's wordless inquiry.

Murphy's approving nod was accompanied by the sound of his stomach rumbling. His hand flashed out, reaching for the pepper shaker sitting on the stove. "Let me give ye a hand."

Pushing the shaker out of his brother's reach, Connor swatted at him with the spatula. "Leave it alone," he said, "Its fuckin' fine just the way it is."

"All I'm fuckin' sayin' is . . ." Murphy protested, trying to reach around Connor and get to the coveted shaker. Another smack with the spatula cut his objections short.

"Why don't ye make yourself useful and make some toast?"

Murphy huffed, withdrawing his hand and Connor took one last swipe at him for good measure, grinning.

"All right, ye fuck, now ye're askin' for it." Murphy reached for the nearest weapon, a red, ripe, tomato, and Connor barely had time to react as it came hurtling toward him.

Instinctively, his hand shot up to catch the projectile, and the tomato exploded against his palm in a shower of slime and seeds.

Murphy threw his hands triumphantly in the air, whooping with laughter and Connor scowled at him, wiping the gloppy mess from his face.

"Ye're a fuckin' asshat is what ye are," he said.

Still laughing, Murphy nodded, "I am at that. Oh, and Conn?"

Rolling his eyes, Connor tossed another handful of pulverized tomato into the sink, where it landed with a weighty splat. "What?"

"Your eggs are burnin'."

o()o

"Mornin' Molls."

The nurse looked up from her paperwork and offered him a broad grin, green eyes sparkling. "Hi Connor," she said, "it's good to see you again."

Connor returned her smile politely, inclining his head toward one of the rooms across the Continuing Care Unit's hallway. "How is she?"

It was always one of the first questions he asked, usually within a few minutes of walking through the door of the CCU. Her answer never changed, but that had never deterred him from asking.

Molly looked down to jot something down on the chart in front of her. "Her vitals are good, nice strong heartbeat and blood pressure. Her EEG's steady. . . "

She trailed off, benevolently omitting the cruelest part of the report, but Connor heard the rest of her reply as clearly as though she had spoken aloud.

_But there are still no signs of awakening. _

Nodding slightly, accepting the twinge of pain and guilt that was so much a part of him now, Connor pushed a smile past the ache in his chest. "How was your honeymoon?" he asked, changing the subject. "Ye look like ye got quite a bit o' sun there."

"I'm utterly burnt." She giggled, holding out a hand to display her reddened skin, "but it was _so_ worth it to lie on the beach all day long and drink Mai Tais."

"Aye," he agreed, chuckling.

Molly's eyes flitted to the bouquet he was holding, "Those are pretty," she said "you did good this time."

Connor glanced down at the colorful array of flowers in his hands and shrugged, "I saw the orange ones and thought she'd like them."

The nurse's compassionate smile never wavered, but her eyes turned wistful, "I'm sure she would. You can go in whenever you're ready."

Nodding his appreciation, Connor scribbled his name on the visitor list and then slipped into the room.

The area was dimly lit and painted in restful shades of beige and white, a serene looking watercolor gracing the far wall. It was filled with a variety of medical equipment, which beeped and hummed quietly in the background.

The room's only inhabitant lay unmoving on the bed, crisp white linens covering her from the waist down, hiding the many tubes and wires that Connor knew were there, keeping her alive. The hospital gown hung on her small frame and she was too thin and too pale, all of her previous vivacity gone.

It made his heart hurt to look at her, but he accepted the pain without question or complaint. She was still beautiful to him. And he still loved her so much. So much.

Still.

Always.

Stepping up to the bed, he smoothed a thumb over Maire's cheek and pressed a kiss against her forehead. "'Llo, darlin'," he said softly, fingers still brushing over her fragile skin, "I miss you."

Looking around the room he grimaced, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it over one of the uncomfortable looking chairs.

Connor loathed hospitals.

He hated the smell of disinfectant mixed with sickness and he hated the cheery décor meant to disguise the fact that this was the last stop for a handful of people each day. More than anything, though, he hated the dimness of Maire's hospital room.

The nurses had once explained to him the calming effect of soft lighting, but to Connor it still felt like giving up hope, as though he was abandoning her to the darkness.

He drew open the blinds, flooding the room with sunlight and pulled the flowers from his last visit, now wilted, out of the vase beside the bed, replacing them with the new bouquet.

"I found us a new book ta try," he said, throwing the old flowers into the garbage. "Sorry about last time, I didn't realize that it was one of _those_ books."

He had made it barely two chapters into the previous book before he had found himself describing acts that he was certain weren't supposed to be put into print, not to mention that they were, without a doubt, physically impossible.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ." Skimming ahead a couple of pages, blood had rushed to Connor's face and he'd snapped the book shut, looking sheepishly at the prone figure in the bed. "I'll find us a different story," he'd assured her.

Now, he tugged a battered paperback out of his jacket pocket, giving it a quick once over before sitting down in the bedside chair.

"This one ought to be better," he said, "librarian approved and all that."

His only response was the quiet rasp of the ventilator. Maire didn't move and gave no sign that she was even aware of his presence.

Opening the paperback, Connor gave her one last fleeting look and a small smile before turning his attention to the book.

"_She stands up in the garden where she has been working and looks into the distance. She has sensed a shift in the weather,_" he read, his voice soft and low in the quiet room, "_There is another gust of wind, a buckle of noise in the air, and the cypresses sway . . ._"

The librarian had been right, the book was engrossing and Connor found himself drawn into the story after the first paragraph. Every so often he would glance up from the words, his gaze going to Maire searching for some sign that she could hear him. He had long ago stopped being disappointed that she didn't respond, but he refused to give up the hope that someday, _someday, _she might.

"_If it is cold, she moves carefully into the bed and lies beside him. She can place no weight on him without giving him pain, not even a thin wrist._"

As he became more absorbed in the story his voice evened out, giving life to the characters and the plot. He had no idea that his accent was a little thicker when he read and that his tone became smoother and richer.

Across the hall, Molly stopped doing her paperwork to listen to him read, resting her chin in her hand. She smiled slightly as she recognized the story.

He was like clockwork, always asking the same questions, always bringing a book to read to her, and always praying with her before leaving.

Molly continually tried to hear the prayer without actually eavesdropping on the couple, preferring to think of herself as being simply 'curious' and not at all nosy. The rhythm was closer to a poem than an actual prayer and Connor's voice changed when he recited it, giving the words life and breath. Giving them a passion that most people only dreamed of having.

Sometimes the prayer was different, and sometime the language was, but it always seemed to be saying the same thing.

_Come back to me. _

She glanced down at the ring on her finger, her thoughts turning to the man waiting for her at home. She wondered if her new husband would come to a hospital day after day as Connor did for Maire, making sure the flowers were always fresh and reading to her, if for no other reason than on the off chance that she would know he was there.

She hoped she would be so lucky.

o()o


	3. Chapter 3

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Echinacea is an honest-to-goodness herbal suppliment/immune booster doodad. It smells bad and tastes even worse, but the results are nothing short of miraculous. It's a staple in my household.  
**Nifty Fact for the Day:** _Dia Linn_ is gaelic for 'bless you' and is the appropriate thing to say after a sneeze. _

o(3)o

He felt like shite.

"Fuckin' nose," Murphy groused and reached for another Kleenex. "Fuckin' nose and fuckin' germs and fuckin' cold."

His head seemed to weigh four hundred pounds, only slightly heavier than the weight in his chest. And his nose was either constantly running or so congested he couldn't get a single breath through it. He sank into the couch with a groan and huddled into the nest of blankets he had created there.

Plopping down next to him, Connor gave him an amused, sympathetic glance and propped his feet up on Danae's battered coffee table a mug in his hands.

"How are ye feelin'?"

Murphy blew his nose loudly in response. "Brilliant," he muttered around the tissue.

"Ye'd think all the alcohol in our systems would kill just about anythin'," his brother mused as he picked up the television remote. "I guess this proves what a fuckin' lightweight ye really are."

"Go on outta that!" Murphy protested. "I'd fuckin' . . ." he was interrupted by a hearty sneeze, "fuckin' . . ." and another, "I'd . . ." and two more, "fuck!"

"_Dia linn_," Connor said, scooting a little further away from him, "and keep your fuckin' germs ta yourself."

Murphy huffed, "Nice ta know ye care there, Conn." 

"I care enough ta sit here next to your invalid arse, don't I?" his twin asked, flipping through the channels. He paused on a station and Murphy grimaced at his twin's choice.

"Next," he said, vetoing the show. "Flip it ta that one station and see if one o' those programs with all the car chases is on."

Connor scoffed at him and continued to browse through all the channels.

Even doped to the gills with cold medicine, Murphy was still managed to be quicker than Connor and his hand shot out, swiping the remote control from his brother.

"Hey!" Connor protested swatting at him, "fuckin' give that back."

Burying himself under the pile of blankets, Murphy batted his brother's hands away, keeping the remote safely out of Connor's reach.

"This cold is fuckin' bad enough . . ." He stopped as another explosive sneeze rocked him forward. "I don't need your nawful taste in the telly on top of it."

Still grappling for the changer, Connor managed to look indignant. "Oh, fuck you! There's nothing fuckin' wrong with my taste in programs."

"Ye fuckin' watch Murder, She Wrote!"

"I do not!"

"Do so, I've caught ye before."

"It was just on that one fuckin' time!"

"Ye're . . . so . . . fuckin' . . . full . . . of . . . shite . . ." Another round of sneezes fragmented his words and Connor, seeing his opportunity, reached over and plucked the remote from his hands. " Damnit Conn!"

"_Dia linn_," his twin said smugly and leaned back to resume his perusal of the channels.

"Ye bastard. I swear ta Christ I should've . . ." Murphy stopped as Danae came into the living room blinking blearily.

"Everything okay?" she asked, holding a hand up to shield her eyes against the daylight.

"Aye," Connor replied. "Just Murph rattlin' his marbles a bit."

"Go back ta bed, luv," Murphy said, "It's early for ye yet."

Danae frowned down at him, "You sound awful."

He shrugged off his mound of blankets and snuffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve. It felt like the last round of sneezes had added another pound of snot to his head. "Just a wee cold, nothing I can't handle."

Connor's eyebrows rose. "Oh, aye, listen ta macho Murph, here," he scoffed. "The last time it was 'nothing ye couldn't handle' they ended up rearranging your fuckin' guts."

Danae's frown deepened and Murphy shot his twin a meaningful look. "Just a fuckin' cold," he insisted.

"Aye, Danae," Connor conceded, reaching out to muss his hair. "Nothin' ta worry about."

Danae blinked between the two of them and then turned and walked away, shuffling her feet. Both brothers exchanged a curious glance as they watched her wordless departure. She returned a moment later with a large white bottle and set it in front of him on the table.

"Echinacea," she murmured, rubbing at her eyes. "Two now and two before bed everyday. You'll be fine by the end of the week. I'm going back to sleep."

Murphy chuckled at her and picked up the bottle. "Night, luv," he said as she wandered back toward her bedroom, "I'll see ye in the evenin'."

Unscrewing the bottle cap, he took a cautious whiff of the Echinacea and recoiled from the odor. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, that shite smells worse'n the arse end of a skunk."

Danae's voice floated back to him, eerily reminiscent of Ma's. "Take two," she ordered.

Arching an eyebrow, he looked into the medicine bottle, aware of Connor snickering beside him.

"Wonder if they'd be any better with a beer."

o()o

All he had wanted was a fucking cup of coffee.

It had seemed like a simple enough thing: turn on the tap, fill the pot, and make coffee. But the plumbing had had different ideas, spraying water all the way to the ceiling in a geyser that would have put Old Faithful to shame.

Both brothers had been sent, dripping and swearing, to scrounge up what few tools Danae owned and towels to clean up the mess.

Now sprawled across the kitchen floor, his head stuck in the cabinets under the sink, Connor grimaced at the shoddy workmanship of the pipes.

"Looks like a fuckin' monkey put this together," he announced to his twin, who was mopping up water with a handful of towels. "Actually," he amended, taking a closer look, "it looks like that time Ma tried ta fix the water closet on her own."

Murphy snorted and dropped the now sodden towels into the corner with a wet _splat_. "Christ, wasn't that a fuckin' mess?"

"Aye."

Connor remembered all too well the repair job their mother had done, it had taken their Uncle Sibeal and themselves three days and half a dozen trips to the local hardware store to sort out the mess and get things working properly again.

After everything was said and done, Sibeal had collected his tools, kissed his sister-in-law on the cheek and forbade her from ever, _ever_ even so much as _looking_ at a wrench again.

Both Connor and Murphy had received toolboxes of their own that Christmas.

"Speaking o' messes," he said, craning his neck to look at his twin, "how're ye feelin'?"

Murphy reached for another mostly-dry towel, taking several unsuccessful swipes at the kitchen counter, "Better. That vile shite that Danae gave me is workin' like a miracle."

"Girl knows her medicine."

"She does at that."

In the other room, the phone rang, the sudden sound startling Connor. His head connected soundly with one of the mismatched pipes and his oath was as colorful as it was uncouth

Murphy chuckled, shaking his head. "I'll get it," he said, hopping over the leg Connor stretched out in an attempt to trip him.

Turning his attention back to the task at hand, Connor plucked a suitable weapon from the meager assortment of tools and began his war against the muddle of haphazard plumbing, brow furrowed in concentration.

Three scraped knuckles, countless curses in every language he knew, and one goose egg later, the drips had been fixed and the piping, while still a disaster, was at least a functioning disaster.

Connor rolled back on his ankles and dusted off his hands, eyeing his handiwork. Every looked good. Now, for the final test. . .

One hand on the tap, he held his breath and braced himself for another drenching; already forming the oaths he was going to use on the vile thing if it did soak his sorry arse.

But the faucet ran perfectly and Connor grinned at it. "Would ye look at that," he said proudly. "Fuckin' Bob Vila, I am."

After a moment, he glanced around the kitchen and realized that there was nobody to share his triumph with. Murphy was still gone.

"Say Murph, come in here and have a look at . . ." he came around the corner and froze, his words dying on his tongue as he spotted his brother.

Murphy was leaning in the doorway of the living room, phone cradled between his ear and shoulder, uncharacteristically still as he listened to whoever was on the other end.

"Aye," he said quietly, his voice solemn. "Aye, I see."

"Murph?"

Murphy held up a silencing hand and Connor's stomach constricted at his twin's expression. Something wasn't right.

"Murphy, what the fuck?"

His brother ignored him, listening intently and nodding at whatever he was being told. "And when did this happen? All right. All right, thank ye."

Ending the call, he tossed the phone onto the sofa, running a hand through his hair and bringing his thumb to his mouth. After a moment he looked up at Connor.

"Sit down, Conn," he said gently.

"What the fuck is going on?"

Still staring at the phone, Murphy was silent for an endless moment, worrying his thumbnail between his teeth, the other hand fidgeting absently with his unlit cigarette.

"That was the hospital," he said at last. "They were callin' about Maire."

Something hit Connor hard in the chest, and vaguely he realized it wasn't anything physical. This couldn't be happening, it was too fucking soon.

"We never got to finish our book," he whispered, sinking heavily into Danae's recliner. Somehow, at that very moment, it seemed like the greatest injustice, one last failure for her to remember him by.

He wasn't ready for this. Not today. Not yet.

Not ever.

He was aware of Murphy talking to him, but his twin's words were drowned out by the ones that were ricocheting around in his head.

This shouldn't be happening. Not her. It should have never been her. It wasn't right. It was supposed to be him_. It should have been him! _

He pinched the bridge of his nose and bowed his head and trying to stave off the relentless sting of tears he could feel behind his eyes.

_Maire. Oh, God. I'm sorry, so sorry, so fucking sorry._

A warm hand settled on his knee and he looked up into Murphy's worried eyes. " Conn?"

Connor ignored him, unable to see anything beyond his own heartache. He had to call Tom and Valerie, Sasha's foster parents. He had to explain to the little girl that the mother she barely remembered was gone.

And that it was his fault.

"Connor? _Connor_." Murphy's tone was alarmed now, and Connor shook himself, trying to focus.

"When . . ." His tone lurched a little, and he adjusted it, forcing the sound past the ache in his chest. "When did she die?"

"Die? Jesus Christ, did ye not hear a single word that I've just said to ye?"

Connor shook his head dumbly and Murphy's expression softened.

"She didn't die, Conn, she started breathin' on her own this afternoon."

Connor froze, staring at his twin. Murphy's words had taken the grief that was filling him and compressed it into the smallest glimmer of hope. "What?" he breathed.

Moving to kneel before him, Murphy offered Connor a hint of a smile and a steadying hand. "They took her off the ventilator about an hour ago," his brother explained. "Nothing's for certain, but the doctors think that she might be tryin' ta wake up."

o()o


	4. Chapter 4

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Monumental thanks to my beta slaves for all the hard work that went into this chapter. I don't know what I would do without you guys!  
**Nifty Fact for the Day: **Possibly the most important gaelic phrase you'll ever use is _ceannóidh mé na deochanna seo don chuideachta_ (pronounced kyann-oh-ee may nah djeukh-ah-nah sheuh dhun khwidj-okh-thah) It means 'I'll buy this round of drinks'._

o(4)o

After nearly six months in the hospital, it took Maire a week and a half to wake up.

Fueled by endless cups of black coffee Connor had barely left her side in that time. He'd finally gone back to Danae's, at his twin's insistence, for a shower and something to eat. Only to have Murphy call him an hour later, telling him that Maire was awake and talking.

"Take a minute and get her somethin' nice afore ye come," Murphy had instructed before hanging up the telephone.

Now, Connor burst through the doors of the Continuing Care Unit and saw his brother waiting for him, leaning against the wall outside of Maire's room, his ripped jeans and dark coat at odds with the pale watercolors of the hospital's decor.

Connor wondered if he looked as incongruous.

"Well?" he said.

Murphy pressed a hand against the back of his neck, the action both comforting and restraining, "The nurse is in there with her now," he said, "she told us ta wait out here until she said it was okay, something about removin' some tubes."

Connor shuddered at the thought, grimacing.

Murphy covered his own shiver by giving him a solid slap on the back. "Ye got her somethin' right?"

"Aye." Digging into his pocket, Connor produced a toothbrush and a package of fruit snacks, both from the lobby vending machine. "Didn't have much time," he muttered, ducking his head, "I wanted ta get her as quick as I could."

"Way ta go Casanova," Murphy hooted and nudged him roughly with an elbow. "Ye'll win her heart for sure with those."

Connor felt the blood rushing to his face and shoved the offerings back into his pocket. "Fuck ye, I said I didn't have any fuckin' time."

Murphy gave an incredulous snort, shaking his head, "Ye couldn't even get her a fuckin' Snickers bar? Somethin' with chocolate in it?"

"Arsehole," Connor muttered under his breath, rubbing his thumb over the curve of the toothbrush handle.

Murphy grappled for him, capturing him in a headlock and scraping his knuckles mercilessly over Connor's hair. "I'll show ye who the arsehole is."

Connor struggled against his grip, the awkward position making his return blows flounder. "Let me go, ye crazy fuck, we're in a fuckin' _hospital_ here."

Murphy opened his mouth to reply, but a nurse chose that moment to exit Maire's room, stopping in her tracks to stare at them both, eyebrows raised.

From his place, firmly wedged in the crook of Murphy's arm, Connor looked up at her. "Ma'am," he said, giving her his best smile, even as he gave his twin a hearty slap to the back of the head, making Murphy's hair stick up in wild angles.

Murphy readjusted his grip around Connor's neck, giving the nurse a polite nod, his face the picture of innocence. "Ma'am," he echoed.

The nurse's stern countenance dissolved into a smile and she shook her head, jotting down something on the clipboard in her hands. "Boys," she said, giving them an amused chuckle, "You can go in whenever you're ready."

Slipping out of Murphy's grasp, Connor straightened his jacket and shirt, unsteady hands fumbling the simple task. He shot a cagey look into the room, suddenly nervous, a thousand _what ifs_ tumbling through his brain.

"Go on," said Murphy, "I'm goin' ta see if I can't find Danae and tell her the good news."

Connor nodded his appreciation and placed a hand on the back of his twin's neck, squeezing gently.

Murphy patted at his fingers, the corners of his mouth quirking. "I'll catch up in a bit."

o()o

Connor slipped into the room, his heart hammering against his ribs and stopped, swallowing hard.

The room was no different than it had been every other time he had visited in the last six months: maddeningly dim, and smelling slightly of floor cleaner. Maire herself looked the same: sleeping peacefully, her dark lashes standing out starkly against her too-pale skin.

Had she really woken up, or had he imagined it all? He'd had so many dreams, so many nightmares since last summer that he wasn't yet sure if he could really believe this was actually happening. It seemed real, felt real; but so had so many of his dreams.

Then Maire sighed in her sleep, the sound taking him by surprise, and he realized how quiet the room was. The machines were gone. The tubes were removed, the wires disconnected, the incessant beeping and clicking silenced.

The endless waiting was finally over.

Stepping up to the metal guardrails, he smoothed a thumb over her cheek and pressed a kiss against her forehead, his other hand entwining with hers carefully avoiding the I.V. that was taped to the back of her wrist. "'Llo, darlin'," he said softly.

Her eyelids fluttered and apprehension washed over him, bringing a tidal wave of questions and uncertainties. Did she blame him for what happened? Of course she did, she must. And why wouldn't she? It was his fault, after all. Maybe he shouldn't be there; maybe she wouldn't want to see him.

But then her hand tightened around his and Connor suddenly found himself gazing into clear gray eyes.

Eyes he thought he'd never see again.

All the things he wanted to say to her, the lines he'd repeated over and over in his mind these past months, everything, evaporated from his head, replaced with pure awe. She was there and awake, the answer to his prayers.

.He wanted to sob out his relief that she was there He wanted to take her into his arms and never let her go. He wanted to tell her of his joy and his pain, he wanted to fall to his knees and beg her forgiveness.

But all he could do was stare.

"Hi," she rasped, offering him a crooked smile.

"Hey," he finally managed to whisper around the sudden tightness in his chest. Christ, she was so beautiful.

"Thanks . . ." she cleared her throat, lack of use making her voice rough. "Thanks for coming to see me."

"For . . ." Connor chuckled unsteadily, recapturing her hand and rubbing his thumb across her knuckles, "of course I came. How are ye? Do ye need anything?"

She smiled up at him and squeezed his fingers in return. "I think I'm okay. Have you been here long?"

Settling into his usual chair beside her bed, Connor shrugged, still gripping her hand tightly as though she would be taken from him at any moment, lapsing back into the depths of the coma and leaving him alone.

"Only a few hours," he admitted and then smiled ruefully. "Today."

"That's really kind of you."

"Had nothin' ta do with kindness, Maire." He chuckled as a new thought struck him, "I can't wait for Sasha ta see ye. She's missed ye so much."

Receiving only silence in reply, Connor looked down at her sharply, the smile slipping from his face. "Are ye all right?"

She nodded shifting a little in the bed. "It's just," she made a helpless gesture with her free hand; "I feel a little weird just laying here, you know?"

"Well, let's see about giving sittin' up a go then."

He slid an arm around her waist and eased her upright, frowning at how light she was. The sharp jut of bones through her paper-thin skin was testimony of the toll that the coma had taken on her body, blatant evidence of how horrifically he had failed her.

Awkwardly shoving her pillows behind for support and leaning against them, she wriggled for a moment and then gave a contented sigh. "_Much_ better. Thank you."

He nodded, reaching out to catch a strand of fair hair, rubbing it between his fingers. Emotion swelled inside of him like a balloon being inflated and before he could stop himself, Connor had both arms around her. He reveled in the warmth of her skin and her unique scent, the one that would always remind him of summer.

His hands were shaking as he smoothed them over her back and he could feel the sting of tears burning in his eyes. He loved her so much. So much.

"Christ," he murmured into her shoulder, "but I missed ye."

Her hand fluttered against his back. "Hey . . ."

"Is this a private party," Murphy's voice came from the doorway, "or can anyone join?"

Maire beamed over to where his brother was standing. "Hi."

Releasing her, Connor ran his sleeve over his eyes, covering the telltale snuffle with a cough. "I was startin' ta think ye weren't goin' ta show."

Murphy grinned, "Wouldn't miss this for the world.

He pushed off the doorframe arms outstretched and his hug was accompanied by a chaste kiss on Maire's cheek. "Welcome back," he said. "How're ye feelin'?"

"A little sore and a little hungry." She giggled, rearranging the blanket over her knees, "and I _really_ have to pee."

The burn was back in Connor's eyes and he blinked against it. Hard. She was really there, awake and alive.

And she had to pee.

Murphy grinned and Connor noticed that his twin's eyes were a little wet as well.

"Can't help ye with that one," Murphy said, ruffling Maire's hair and swiping at his eyes when she wasn't looking. "But Danae promised ta smuggle us in some food after a bit. She said that nobody should have ta wake up ta hospital Jell-o."

"Eeeww," Maire concurred, wrinkling her nose.

Arching an eyebrow, Murphy looked down at Maire, then over to Connor. "Has Conn Juan given ye your gifts yet?"

She shook her head, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. "Nobody mentioned gifts to me."

"And here I thought that he would have by now. He worked so hard on pickin' them out for ye."

Heat flooded Connor's face, one hand closing around the items in his pocket, the other stretching out to swat at his twin, "Shut your fuckin' gob, Murph."

Murphy laughed, dodging his fist. "I swear ta ye, Maire: I tried ta teach him some fuckin' sense, but it just won't take."

Her laugh was rusty as she watched him pull his brother into a headlock, but Maire's gray eyes were clear and her smile was just a broad and beautiful as Connor remembered. He paused for a moment, staring at her, and Murphy landed a blow to the back of his head.

"For Christ's sake, don't just stand there y'eejit," his twin said. "Give her the fuckin' things already."

Hoping that his face wasn't as red as it felt, Connor produced his humble offerings, slipping them into her hands. "I'll get ye somethin' proper soon," he promised quietly.

Maire looked down at her gifts, turning them over in her hands, smiling warmly. "I think they're perfect. And this," she held up the toothbrush, "is going to be the very first thing I use."

Behind them, someone cleared their throat loudly, and Connor turned to see a nurse standing beside Murphy, clipboard in her hand.

"Sorry guys, Maire and I need to run through a few tests," she glanced between the three of them, a smile turning her plain face surprisingly pretty. "No boys allowed."

"Guess that's our cue ta go," Connor said, reluctantly releasing Maire's hand and pressing a kiss against her cheek.

"We'll only be an hour or so," the nurse assured them. "You're more than welcome to come back when we're all done."

Murphy leaned in for a hug, planting a chaste kiss on Maire's forehead, and then turned to the nurse. "There's no need for ye ta do all o' that," he grinned, " Conn and I can do all the testin' that Maire here needs."

The nurse arched an eyebrow, a hint of a smile playing on her lips, and Murphy took the challenge.

"Maire," he said, placing a hand on his chest, "what's my name?"

"Oh, aye, medical Murph," Connor scoffed, rolling his eyes, "can't ye give her a single fuckin' minute before ye go pullin' this shite?"

Murphy winked at her, and she giggled uncertainly, her smile slipping a bit.

"Oh, all right, if ye want the easy one first," he leveled a finger at Connor. "Who's he?"

"For Christ's fuckin' sake, Murphy . . ." Connor's irritation evaporated as he looked down at Maire.

Tears had begun to well in her eyes as she looked between the two of them, hands twisting the hem of her blanket.

Murphy's face softened immediately and the entire room was swallowed silence. Connor could only watch as his brother placed a hand on her foot, patting it through the blanket. "Take it easy, ye don't have ta get upset. Just tell me my name."

Sniffling, she wiped under her eyes, "You were both so nice," she whispered thickly.

"Who are we, luv?" Murphy urged, his face imploring.

She shook her head helplessly, tears spilling, and Connor felt his insides go cold.

"I don't know."

o()o

Two had left her hospital room, but only one had come back.

Maire looked away from the television show they had both been watching, offering the dark-haired man that sat next to her a tentative smile.

"I'm sorry," she said, catching her bottom lip between her teeth.

He looked up at her sharply, eyes wide, "No, no, no," he said, placing a warm hand on her knee. "T'isn't your fault."

She looked away, pressing her lips together. "I think I really upset your friend." The image of the other man's stricken expression was still fresh in her mind, making her chest tighten painfully.

"Brother," the man corrected absently, frowning, "Don't ye worry about him, he'll be back as soon as he figures out how to pull his head out of his arse."

"You're brothers?"

"Aye, we're twins actually."

"No! Really? Twins?"

He grinned, "Aye, Conn's the evil one."

Maire laughed, grateful for his casual cheerfulness. Giving him her brightest smile, she extended a hand. "The nurses tell me I'm Maire."

He took her hand between both of his own and returned her smile. "Murphy MacManus."

"And your brother?"

"Connor."

She closed her eyes, trying to pull something about these brothers from the cobwebs in her brain, something about _anything, _but there was nothing. Her life had officially begun three hours ago and whatever had been before that was just . . . well, gone.

"We were friends?"

"We _are_ friends," he corrected, squeezing her fingers gently. Murphy released her, his hand going to rub the back of his neck and his smile turned rueful, "Guess our greetin' was a bit inappropriate, seein' as how it was our first and all."

"It was --" _kind of nice_, her mind supplied, "—unexpected."

"Aye."

Maire looked down at the blanket that covered her lap, and remained silent, toying with the hem. She wasn't quite sure what was causing her unease, or even exactly if that was what she was really feeling. She shifted a little uncomfortably and finally met his gaze again. "Can I ask you something?"

"Ask away."

"Did you really know? I mean, that I didn't know who you were?"

Murphy's smile faded, and this time it was his gaze that slid away from hers. "T'isn't important," he said bringing his thumb to his mouth and worrying the nail between his teeth.

Hurt by his sudden vagueness, she cleared her throat and tried again. "So, I've been here a while?"

His gaze flickered up to hers and he nodded, his smile not quite as bright. Maire frowned at the shadow she could see behind his eyes. "Over five months."

"Five months, two weeks and six days today."

Maire looked up at the new voice and saw the other man, Connor, leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. A brightly colored bouquet was clutched in one hand.

He swallowed hard and offered her an uneasy smile, "Except today doesn't really count, does it?"

Murphy looked up toward his brother and scoffed, his grin returning in full force. "Fuckin' took ye long enough."

"Shut it," Connor said, pushing off the doorframe and offering her a more genuine smile, it wavered for a moment, then held. "Told ye I'd get ye a proper gift."

Maire took the flowers, gently fingering the delicate buds. "They're beautiful," she said, "especially the orange ones."

Connor's smile stayed firmly in place, but a shadow flitted behind his eyes. "I thought ye'd like them."

An awkward silence fell between them, Maire staring down at her hands, folding and unfolding the paper that ensconced the bouquet and Connor staring at his shoes.

A relieved sigh and a quiet chuckle from Murphy broke the moment and Maire looked up to see a dark-haired woman standing outside of the room, struggling to balance what looked like half a restaurant in her arms and knock on the door at the same time. She offered Maire a wry smile, catching a slipping take-out container with her chin.

"Someone order delivery?"

o()o


	5. Chapter 5

o()o

_**Author's Note: **This has been, without question, the most disasterous month I've ever had. Do me a favor, all of you out there in PCLand, leave me a review and make my day. I could sure use it!  
**Nifty Fact for the Day: **If you make a _hames_ out of something in Ireland, you're making a big mess of it. You can also bollix it royally._

o(5)o

Wiping away the steam, leaving beads of water in the wake of her fingers, Maire stared at the mirror, frowning.

Gray eyes, fair hair curling damply around her shoulders, pale cheeks flushed from the heat of the shower: it was the same reflection that she had probably looked at every day of her life. Nevertheless, the woman gazing back at her was a stranger.

She wished she could wipe away the fog in her brain as easily as she could the steam from the mirror, leaving her thoughts and memories clear.

Carefully folding the towel and setting it aside, she trailed her hand over her waist, fingertips skimming the scar that marred the flesh there. It sprawled across her middle, red and shiny, an angry contrast to the rest of her light skin. It must have been very painful once.

Not that she could remember.

She prodded the scar gently, as though she could glean some small amount of recollection from the mark; something to illuminate the world that had been taken from her. All she got, however, was a tender belly.

The nurses told her she'd been caught in the crossfire between rival gangs, a bullet stealing away the life she'd once had.

Only they had phrased it as _wiping the slate clean._

Maire grimaced; it was a clean slate all right. So clean, in fact, she kept forgetting where things were, or how to do simple everyday tasks. Yesterday, she'd stared at the lobby's vending machine for five minutes before she could remember what to do. A few days earlier, the shower had taken twice as long. She couldn't remember what kind of music she liked, or her favorite food.

Sighing, she abandoned the notion and held up her shirt, making a face at the color before tugging it over her head. She supposed she should be grateful that she at least remembered how to get dressed without help.

Tag to the back and everything.

With one hand against the wall to steady herself, Maire stepped out of the bathroom and smiled. Her guys were already there.

Their presence didn't surprise her; they had been there to greet her every morning since she had woken up, and she didn't see the trend ending anytime soon. The thought sent a spark of gratefulness through her. For all that they were strangers to her they kept her from facing this entire ordeal on her own.

Unnoticed, she watched them. Today, each brother had a cup of coffee and a doughnut in hand as they argued good naturedly about someone called Joe Friday and his partner. The array of insults they tossed back and forth made her arch an eyebrow, unsure whether to be offended or impressed.

There were a few that she'd have to write down, though.

Murphy, she tried to commit the name to her still-wavering memory, was perched on the edge of her bed, flipping through the television channels. His argument for Bill Gannon was broken up with protestations as his brother rejected each of his channel selections.

Connor sat in the bedside chair, gesturing enthusiastically with his pastry. "I'm tellin' ye, Frank Smith -- skip it – would kick Gannon's arse up and down the fuckin' street."

"Ye daft twat, Smith never even fired a fuckin' gun –"

"Nobody ever fuckin' fired a gun. It was fuckin' _Dragnet_."

Maire's eyes lingered on Connor, taking in the way his eyes crinkled as he laughed and the color of his hair: not quite brown, not quite blond. He had one arm draped casually over the back of the chair, long legs stretched out in front of him. It was nice to see him smiling and the shadow that usually lingered behind his eyes was gone as he bickered with his brother.

An unexpected memory tickled along the edge of her brain and Maire narrowed her eyes, grasping at it, but it remained maddeningly out of her reach. Something to do with Connor. Connor and an artist . . . a painter? Did Connor paint?

"Fuckin' stop it, ye crazy bastard!"

The affronted cry startled her and the memory was gone. Opening her eyes, Maire saw Connor gleefully pushing buttons on the bed control and her hospital bed raising closer and closer to the ceiling. A pair of denim clad legs, hung over the edge, kicking angrily.

"I swear ta Christ, if ye don't let me down . . ."

Maire's eyebrows shot toward her hairline. Just how high did those beds _go_?

Connor only reply to his brother's protests was to push another button, hooting as the bed began to fold in half, efficiently squashing Murphy.

"Ye fuck!"

A drinking pitcher catapulted down, glancing off of Connor's shoulder, and Maire pressed a hand against her mouth to stifle her laughter as he was forced to dodge the sudden torrent of objects hurtling toward him.

"All right." He laughed, ducking as a pillow whizzed over his head, followed closely by the television remote which landed with a clatter on the floor. "Knock it the fuck off and I'll let ye down."

Finally, an inelegant snort escaped her and Connor turned sharply to look toward where she was standing, his hand going to his ribs.

"'Mornin'," he said, offering her a sheepish smile and jamming his hand into his pocket.

"Good morning."

"Mornin', Maire." Murphy's greeting came from above her head and she craned her neck to smile up at him. "We brought ye health food. Look lively."

A paper sack dropped from above and Murphy laughed as she fumbled it.

His hand darting out in a remarkable display of reflexes, Connor caught the sack before it could hit the floor and offered it to her..

"Didn't expect ta see ye up and around after those fuckin' tests yesterday," he said.

"They weren't so bad. It's the ones set up for today that I'm not thrilled about." She resisted the urge to wince at the thought of all the tests she had undergone since waking up – and of all the ones left to endure.

"Christ," Connor said, frowning. "They haven't fuckin' left ye alone since ye woke up."

"I guess science experiments never get a day off." Maire smiled as she pulled a sprinkled doughnut out of the bag, looking at it thoughtfully. Did she like sprinkles? She took an investigative bite and hummed happily.

Oh yeah, sprinkles were _good_.

Connor nodded, looking down at his boots. "Ye're a pretty big deal, ye know. The doctors told Murph and me that there was only a nine percent chance of ye waking up. The odds drop the longer ye're . . ."

"What can I say?" she shrugged and offered him a bright smile, not giving him the chance to finish the grim sentence. "I'm a medical phenomenon."

"Ye're a miracle is what ye are." Connor reached out to cup her cheek but stopped as she flinched away, his hand falling to his side.

The hurt that flashed across his face sent a guilty spike through her and she immediately reversed her actions, stepping forward and touching his arm. "I'm sorry," she said. "I really am. I'm just not used to . . ."

He swallowed hard and shook his head, cutting her apology short. Maire was certain that the smile he offered her wasn't supposed to be so sad.

"No, dar --Maire, _I'm _sorry," he said. "It's hard for me ta keep in mind that the last year doesn't exist ta ye."

"Hey! I'm sorry too." Murphy peered down at them over the edge of the hospital bed, "Now will someone please let me the fuck down?"

Maire didn't understand Connor's retort to his twin, couldn't even recognize the words and a sharp spike of panic stabbed through her. Murphy was laughing at whatever he had said, and Connor's face reflected the sort of backhanded pride that came with a well placed zinger.

But the words had made no sense to her.

It was something that the doctors and nurses had whispered about when they thought she was sleeping, or discussed in low tones outside of her door. They had never mentioned any concerns to Maire, but they threw a single, shudder-inducing phrase around a lot when they thought she couldn't hear.

_Brain damage._

"Are ye all right?" Connor was frowning at her, blue eyes narrowed and concerned. "Ye're lookin' a little shook."

The moment had passed and his words were understandable again. Maire nodded quickly, covering her unease with another bite of her doughnut and a lie.

"I'm fine."

o()o

Maire was still gone, another round of tests claiming her afternoon.

Murphy stepped through the doors of the Continuing Care Unit, idly wondering if the hospital's dehydrated, rehydrated, mashed potatoes had actually been real potatoes at one time, or if they could even be classified as actual food.

He didn't even notice that there was another person in Maire's room until Connor slammed them against the wall.

"Wrong fuckin' room," his twin growled, hands fisted in the lapels of the man's coat.

"Connor, what the fuck?" Murphy was bewildered by as much by his brother's outburst as he was by the anger that now clouded Connor's face.

Connor ignored him. "Ye know damn good and well ye aren't welcome here," he scowled to the other man, then glanced over his shoulder to where Murphy stood, "Little bastard's been sniffing around her room for months now, trying to turn her into some kind o' fuckin' _spectacle_."

"Mr. MacManus, if you'll only hear me out." The response was calm, and Murphy was surprised to see that the other man wasn't fazed by his twin in the least. He almost seemed to be lounging in Connor's grip.

Despite being pinned against the wall, the man offered his hand to Murphy. "Are you friends with Mrs. Kennsett? I'd love to talk to the people that know her best."

Murphy frowned at the shorter man, ignoring the extended hand. "What are ye on about?"

"Adam Whitlatch, Boston Globe. I'm doing a public relations piece on Mrs. Kensett."

Connor's scowl deepened and Murphy laid a restraining hand on the back of his brother's neck. "Ye probably shouldn't be here," he said to the reporter.

"I'm sure if you'll check with the CCU nurses you'll find that I have an appointment with Mrs. Kensett."

"Ye sneaky fuckin' chancer!" Connor's words were accompanied by a bone-rattling shake and Murphy couldn't help but be impressed at the reporter's tenacity. He'd been on the receiving end of those shakes before; they could rattle the teeth clean out of your head.

An old man holding onto an IV pole shuffled by, pausing to stare at the scene, and Murphy shot his twin a meaningful look. "Connor."

With one more shove against the wall Connor released the reporter. "Maire's been through enough," he said. "She doesn't need the likes of you runnin' around and making a hames out of things."

Smoothing down his shirt and adjusting his jacket, "Mr. MacManus I'm not making a 'hames', as you call it, out of anything. Mrs. Kensett's story is nothing short of a miracle. Did you know that the police actually declared her dead? She has a headstone in St. Joseph's and everything, right next to her son if I'm not mistaken."

Connor went white and Murphy felt his own stomach clench at the thought. The police had known she was in the hospital, God knew he and Connor had lied to them often enough. What was she doing with a grave on the other side of town?

For a moment, Whitlatch seemed genuinely nonplussed by their reactions, but the moment was broken by a nonchalant smile. "She's the feel-good story of the year, not to mention that light she can shed on what happened the night she was shot. Someone really screwed the pooch there, let me tell you."

A dull ache captured Murphy's attention and he looked down to see that his hands were clenched into fists, bloody half moons marking where his nails had cut into his palm. Beside him, Connor took in a deep breath through his nose, the tiny muscle in his jaw working furiously.

Taking care to keep himself between his brother and the reporter Murphy forced the ache in his chest away. "Now probably isn't the best time," he said, keeping his tone painstakingly even.

"I'll second that."

Murphy's head snapped around at the new voice, eyebrows rising as he saw Maire, her hair sticking up in wild angles, two globs of whitish paste on her forehead. She offered him a weary smile that was more of a grimace.

Behind her was none other than Detective Dolly himself.

The reporter tensed, his face closing. "Dolly," he said tersely.

"Sorry, Whitlatch," Dolly said, grinning humorlessly, "I have first dibs."

o()o

_Sleeping Beauty of South Boston Awakes _

It was the kind of piece that Idol Ford usually skipped over without a second glance. As a businessman, he had little patience for the frivolous rubbish most papers used as filler. But this time, something in the article caught his eyes. A name.

Mrs. Maire Kensett.

Of all the things that Idol had dealt with in his time as a lawyer, nothing could bother him quite so much as a loose end. Well, there was only one thing to do about it.

Picking up the phone, Idol pushed a button and waited for his secretary to answer, drumming his fingers impatiently on the polished glass of his desk.

" Georgia," he said at last, "I need you to subpoena medical and police records for a woman by the name of Maire Kensett. I'm not sure which hospital. Tell the officials that I'm building a case against the apartment building where she was shot, something about security measures."

He paused, listening, and then nodded, "Oh, and Georgia? Book a flight here from Barbados and give Joseph a call. Tell him I'd like to meet with him as soon as possible."

Hanging up the phone, Idol took a drink of his coffee and readjusted his paper, skimming the article about Mrs. Kensett. The reporter had proclaimed her a miracle, surviving both a vicious gunshot and the subsequent coma without any lasting damage. While she wasn't due for release any time soon, her prognosis was excellent. The young woman truly did have nine lives.

He only had six more to go, then.

o()o


	6. Chapter 6

o()o

_**Author's Note: **I'm going to miss my post date next week, just so all of you out there in PCLand know. I'll be moving all weekend. I'll see everyone the following Sunday.   
**Nifty Fact for the Day:**Ton-fifty and Ton eighty are scores used in darts. A ton equals a hundred and 'Ton eighty' is a perfect score. The oche is the line that you stand behind when you throw.  
_

o(6)o

It had to be a woman thing.

Lingering outside of the hospital room, unnoticed, Murphy watched the girls with a sort of confused fascination. There was a basket sitting on the bed, full of things that he couldn't identify and wasn't sure he wanted to. Danae and Maire sat across from each other on either side of the basket, chatting as they explored its contents.

Danae held up a brightly colored tub, examining it closely. "I don't even remember buying this," she muttered, earning a laugh from Maire.

"What are they doin'?" Connor asked, peering over his shoulder with a frown.

Murphy traded a glance and a shrug with his brother. "Beats the fuck out o'me."

Hands jammed in his pockets, Connor shifted a little and Murphy found an unlit cigarette dancing through his fingers.

"Looks mighty feminine."

Murphy nodded. "It does, aye."

They exchanged another bemused glance before looking back into the hospital room.

"Think we ought ta go in there?"

"Could be dangerous," he deadpanned, "That's a lot o' fuckin' pink."

"Aye," Connor squared his shoulders, and Murphy could see that his twin was trying not to smile, "but I think we're men enough ta handle it."

"Aye."

They stepped in together and were greeted with bright smiles from both women.

"We were just talking about you." Danae said, plucking another tube out of the basket and offering it to Maire.

Cupping the back of her neck, Murphy tilted Danae's face up to him and planted a kiss on her forehead. "Were ye now?"

Hands still buried in the depths of his pockets, Connor inclined his head toward Maire in greeting and gave her a polite smile. "What are ye ladies up to?"

"We," Danae said, exchanging a grin with Maire, "Are having a girl's night in."

Murphy arched an eyebrow, toying with the pencil that secured her hair, freeing a few strands. "Is that so?"

Maire nodded, "The doctors told me I have to stay up all night tonight for the test they want to do tomorrow and . . ." she trailed off, frowning, troubled eyes going to the dark-haired woman.

"Danae." Danae offered with a smile.

Maire's return smile wavered for a moment and then held, her hands fisting and unfisting in the hem of the hospital blanket. "Danae offered to just make an evening out of it."

"So, unless you want to paint your toenails and watch chick flicks all night, you guys might want to find somewhere else to go for the evening." said Danae.

"We'll do our best." Connor reached into the basket, plucking out a jar and unscrewing the lid. He took a cautious whiff of whatever was inside and then quickly set it down, grimacing. "Phew."

Eyes sparkling, Maire gave a long-suffering sigh. "The things we do to be beautiful."

"Ye're already beautiful." Connor grinned. "Nothin' extra needed."

Danae's eyebrows shot toward her hairline and Maire put a hand to her chest, laughing. "Be still my heart," she drawled.

"C'mon Conn Juan," Murphy said, clapping his twin on the back. "Let's get out 'o here before they decide we're having girl's night whether we like it or not."

Connor nodded. "Aye."

Picking a bottle out of the basket, Maire shook it vigorously and gave both brothers a thoughtful look. "Are you sure?" she asked. "If you want to stay, I could probably find the perfect color for you both."

Danae perked. "And exfoliating masks."

Maire nodded enthusiastically, "Oh yeah, we'll find some cuticle cream too."

"In my fuckin' ring ye will!" said Murphy, eyes wide and a little alarmed.

Chuckling, Connor held up his hands taking a step toward the door. "I think we'll be fine for the night, thanks just the same."

Murphy came to stand behind his brother, using Connor as a human shield in case the girls decided to make good on their threat.

"I know just the place ta go."

o()o

The bar was smallish and smoky, with patrons either sitting in amiable silence at the bar or leaning over the pool tables, cues in hand. The music alternated between The Eagles and Patsy Cline. Every once in a while someone would come to stand at the jukebox, swaying to the melody as they fed quarters into the machine, waiting to choose new songs.

Connor made his way from the bar back to his twin, carefully balancing two pints of dark Guinness and four shot glasses full of Jameson's.

Inclining his head in a gesture of thanks, Murphy relieved him of two of the shot glasses, raising one in salute and knocking back the whiskey.

The other he sat aside, looking at it for a moment before snorting. "Fuckin' girls' night." he said.

His own shot burning a satisfying path down to his belly, Connor nodded. "They certainly seem to be getting on well."

"It helps that Maire doesn't know Danae." Murphy said gesturing with his cigarette.

Connor gave his twin a skeptical look. Murphy's logic was taking a whiskey-induced nosedive faster than normal tonight.

"I'm fuckin' serious," Murphy protested. "She's doesn't feel guilty for not knowing who Danae is. She's not trying to make a friendship out of something that she doesn't even fuckin' remember."

Connor stared at his twin, the words sinking in. "Unlike me," he said at last.

"I didn't fuckin' mean it like that, Conn."

"No, ye're right. I can't make things the way they were before, because to her there fuckin' was no before." He chased the bitter words his second shot of whiskey.

Murphy took a deep breath and a swallow of Guinness before speaking. "Just because ye can't go back ta the way things are doesn't mean that ye can't start over. She's still Maire and Ye're still yourself. That was enough the first time. It can be enough this time too."

Swallowing hard against the ache in his chest, Connor reached out and shoved at his twin's shoulder. "All right, who are ye and where's my fuckin' brother?"

Murphy scoffed, swatting at him. "Fuck ye, man. Shut it and take your turn."

Connor swiped his darts from the center of the table and made his up to the _oche_. He took a moment to examine the dartboard, aimed, and threw.

Maybe Murphy was right. Maybe it would still be enough. Maybe he just needed to be her friend first . . .

Each of the darts hit their mark.

"Ton fifty," he announced triumphantly.

Murphy looked at the board and huffed quietly. He picked up his own set of darts from the table as well as his mug of beer. He barely glanced at the dartboard as he threw, focusing instead on draining his pint.

Connor scarcely had time to duck out of the way as a dart whizzed over his head, embedding itself bang on inside the triple-twenty. Two more followed close behind.

"_Ton eighty!_" Murphy whooped and then belched enthusiastically.

Connor glared at the dartboard, then at his twin, jabbing a newly lit cigarette in Murphy's direction. "I fuckin' hate it when ye do that."

The affronted shout only made his brother laugh harder. "That's exactly why I do it."

"Ye fuckin' retard." Shaking his head in disgust, Connor emptied his own pint. "What's that bring the score to then?"

Murphy blinked at him, looked at the dartboard and then shrugged. "Fuck if I know."

o()o

Closing time found both brothers at the bar; lingering over their last bottles of Guinness and trying to outdo one another with both belches and jokes.

"And he looks over at his wife and he says, 'put your fuckin' glasses on Trudy, that's the fuckin' bedpost!"

Murphy pounded a hand on the bar, roaring, his face flushed with laughter. On the other side, the bartender shook her head, snorting as she dutifully wiped down mugs.

Lighting a cigarette, he offered the pack to Connor. "I've one for ye."

"Christ," Connor muttered. "I hope it isn't as nawful as the last one."

Murphy ignored him, drawing in a lungful of smoke. "So, this bloke goes to a doctor and says he has a problem with sex. 'Doc,' he says, 'I think my cock is just too fuckin' small.'"

Connor arched an eyebrow over the rim of his pint, and the bartender paused in her cleaning, glancing over her shoulder at him.

Certain that he had everyone's attention, Murphy grinned. "And naturally the doc asks him what drink he prefers and the bloke replies that he likes American beer.

'Well, there's your fuckin' problem,' the doctor says, 'American beer shrinks things. Ye should try drinkin' Guinness. That's what fuckin' makes things grow.'"

"As every true Irishman knows!" Connor whooped, raising his glass and taking a hearty swig. A belch that had to have come from his toes followed directly after.

Murphy nodded, impressed with the feat, and continued. "Two months later the bloke returns to the doctor with a big fuckin' smile on his face. He shakes the doctor by the hand and thanks him for the great advice.

'I take it ye're drinkin' Guinness now?' asks the doctor.

'Oh no, Doc,' says the man, 'I've got the wife on fuckin' American beer!'"

Laughing hard enough to slip off the barstool, Connor grappled for the nearest thing to hang onto, which happened to be his twin, and both brothers disappeared from the bar.

Murphy landed on top of his brother with a grunt. "Ye fuckin' eejit."

"Christ, Murphy," Connor groaned, shoving at him, "Did ye drink your fuckin' weight in beer? Ye must weigh four hundred pounds!"

Connor's knee connected with his backside, and Murphy hit the ground with a thump. There was a surprised moment of silence, and then he launched himself at his twin, swearing.

In a matter of moments, they were a tangle of limbs on the floor, Murphy with a leg on either side of his brother, his knees pinning his Connor's torso down. Connor kicked and twisted, managing to wriggle out from under him. Then, wrapping an arm around Murphy's chest, he flipped his twin onto the barroom floor, reversing their positions.

The battle was on, and it raged with playful ferocity, peppered with insults in a wide variety of languages.

It didn't stop until a pair of high-heeled boots came into view, the toe tapping rhythmically.

Both Connor and Murphy paused mid-swat, looking up at the bartender.

"Llo' Lass." Connor said offering her a rakish smile. "Somethin' we can do for ye?"

"I hate to say it, but it's time to go, guys," she said, tossing her towel over her shoulder and offering each of them a hand.

Frowning, Murphy looked at his twin. " Conn, I do believe this fine lass is tryin' ta kick our buckled arses right out of this bar."

Connor turned doleful eyes toward the girl, getting to his feet. "Ye wouldn't."

The bartender smiled, raising a pierced eyebrow. "I would and I am. It's been fun, but there's microwave dinner waiting for me at home."

Murphy slung his arm around his brother, swaying for a moment as the room tilted on its axis. "We'd best be on our way then," he said. "There's no comparin' to a TV dinner."

"Not the lasagna anyway," the bartender confirmed, tugging a key ring out of her shirt and selecting a key. "Sure you don't need a cab?"

Idly, Murphy wondered where those keys had been hidden all night long. They certainly hadn't been anywhere near her cleavage. He knew that for a fact.

"We'll be fine walkin'," Connor assured her. "Brisk night like tonight ought ta sober us up a bit."

She gestured grandly toward the door. "Out you go then."

The chilly night was like being doused with ice water and Murphy shivered, walking as fast as he could manage without stumbling.

"Hospital?" he asked, glancing over at his twin.

Connor nodded, weaving an unsteady path across the street. "I just want ta say goodnight."

o()o

Connor was certain that he had never seen so much junk food in his entire life.

Surrounded by every kind of snack food imaginable, a box of tissues between them, Maire and Danae were sniffling softly as they watched some clean cut wanker profess his eternal love to a girl in a ridiculous dress on the television.

Stumbling a bit, Murphy came to stand next to him, placing a hand on his shoulder to steady himself.

"Connor," his twin whispered loudly, "they're fuckin' _green._"

Connor shushed him, "It's just one of those face masks, y'eejit."

"But they're fuckin' green!"

Both women jumped at Murphy's protestation, simultaneously swiping at their eyes and attempting to close some of the bags of junk food that encircled them.

"T'is no use." Connor chuckled, careful to keep one hand on the doorframe for support. "Ye're busted."

"Good night out?" Danae asked, having the good grace to blush as she got to her feet. She wet a washcloth in the sink and passed it to Maire, who scrubbed at her face vigorously.

"Aye."

Settling in the bedside chair, Murphy examined the plethora of snacks before picking up a bag of something orange and cheesy. He held it up, eyebrows raised, and waited permission before tearing open the bag and munching contentedly.

"Ye're too good ta me," he said to both women through a mouthful of orange.

Connor took a hesitant step toward Maire, extending a hand. "Here, ye missed a spot," he said.

Catching her bottom lip between her teeth, Maire offered him the cloth, allowing him to daub at the flecks of green that were still left on her pale skin.

She didn't flinch away from his touch.

Connor's heart kicked up a notch. His booze-fueled body responded in kind and he shoved the washcloth back into her hands, stepping away. "Ye're good now," he said, pulling his coat a little more tightly around himself.

"I think," Murphy said, looking over at Danae, "that ye're quite pretty green like that. Ye're very pretty however ye are."

"I think you're pretty cute too, Murph," Danae laughed, wetting another rag and scrubbing at her face. "Should I have the aspirin bottle at the ready tomorrow?"

"There's no need for that," Connor said. "We're fine."

"We're fuckin' langered." Murphy countered, gesturing at him with a chip.

Connor made a face at his twin. "Barely even jarred," he protested.

"Mouldy."

"Not even close."

Murphy closed the bag of crisps and lobbed it across the room to Connor, who barely caught it as the floor shifted beneath his feet. "Face it, Conn, we're fuckin' rubber. That's why ye've got one hand on the wall to keep from fallin' over."

All eyes turned to the offending hand and Connor felt his face flush.

"Guess you're busted too," Maire said with a grin, folding and unfolding the washcloth carefully.

Shrugging, Connor opened the bag of chips and grabbed a handful, "All right, we're pretty well scuttered," he conceded with a sigh.

Danae laughed. "Aspirin will be on the nightstand in the morning."

Somewhere between handfuls of cheesy orange chips, Connor felt a spike of guilt. "We didn't mean to impose on ye," he said, glancing apologetically between Danae and Maire, "we just wanted ta say good night."

Maire smiled up at him, running a hand through her hair. "I'm glad you did," she murmured.

"We'll be back before your test tomorrow."

"Testing starts at six in the morning," She said giving him an amused smile.

"We'll be waiting for ye when all's said and done," Murphy amended seamlessly, grinning as Maire laughed along with him.

"C'mon y'eejit," Connor said. "Lets get home so we can be of some use tomorrow."

"Aye."

Connor pressed a kiss against Danae's cheek. He leaned in to brush a kiss across Maire's cheek as well but paused, straightening and jamming his hands into his pockets.

"Good night."

He didn't see the hurt that flashed across Maire's eyes as he turned away.

o()o


	7. Chapter 7

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Hope all of you in PCLand are having a great weekend! A couple of dear friends got me a new keyboard this weekend, so now all I want is new sheet music to learn. Have any you want to share:)  
**Nifty Fact of the Day: **In case you don't remember from before, _galya_ is Gaelic for baby, or little one. It's been Connor's nickname for Sasha throughout both WG and GoC. _

o(7)o

"Mah?" The voice was high enough to echo through the hallway and into her room. Maire looked up at the sound, smiling as she rearranged the blanket over her knees.

She picked up the small stuffed kitten and brushed golden fur out of its blue button eyes. She and Murphy had spent almost an hour in the hospital gift shop this afternoon trying to pick out the perfect gift.

"I wish I knew what to get her," She had said, reaching out to touch things that had caught her eye; a ceramic angel, a stained-glass sun catcher, a lollipop bouquet. "What kind of a mother doesn't know what her own daughter likes?"

_Or can't even remember her? _

Murphy had touched her arm, stopping her search, and ducked to look her in the eyes. "Maybe one that's been in a coma for half a year?" he'd replied.

Now, Maire put the stuffed animal down as Connor cracked her door and peered around the doorframe, offering her a warm smile. "Are ye ready?"

The nicely smoothed blanket was back in her hands, the fabric wrinkling as she twisted the hem. Catching her lower lip between her teeth, Maire nodded.

"Me!" the voice was clear and strident from the other side of the door.

"All right," Connor conceded, his voice muffled. "You open it for us, then."

Grabbing the handle, Sasha turned and gave it a hard push, the door obliged, opening easily, and the baby tumbled into the room.

Sitting up on the floor, the baby looked up at him tears welling in her eyes and Connor looked down toward his knees, his eyes crinkling. "Come on, _galya_," he said, picking her up and dusting her off. "Ye're all right."

Seeing Sasha was like looking into a mirror, same unruly fair hair, same gray eyes, same funny upturned nose. Clinging to Connor's hand, she peered around his leg, her other thumb corked securely in her mouth.

She was a masterpiece.

The words popped into her head unbidden and unfamiliar, and Maire paused, grappling for the meaning behind them. But it was no good; the phrase had slipped through her fingers like water.

Connor looked down at the little girl, the corners of his mouth quirking. "Are ye goin' ta tell your Ma hello?" he prompted, ruffling her hair.

Sasha shook her head, removing her hand long enough to point up and him. "Kree!"

Maire offered Sasha a wide smile and was rewarded with a shy wave. "She's perfect."

Scooping Sasha into his arms, Connor planted a kiss on the top of her head, grinning as she giggled, hands going to her hair. "That she is, and don't think for a second that she doesn't know it."

"I have something for you," Maire offered, producing the stuffed kitten.

Sasha turned in Connor's embrace to look at her, one chubby wrist wrapped around the dark collar of his tee-shirt, playing with the mysterious strand of beads that Connor wore around his neck.

"Kidi!" she announced with a delighted squeal. "Hee Kidikidikidi!"

"Let's give mommy your gift too, all right?" he whispered loudly, giving Maire a broad wink.

"No!"

Connor rolled his eyes and shook his head. "T'is her favorite fuckin' word right now. Ye should see her and Murph argue."

Maire giggled at the thought of the darker-haired MacManus engaging in a heated debate with her two-year-old.

She wondered who won.

Connor bowed his head, whispering into the baby's ear. Sasha listened, gray eyes wide and then giggled, holding out her arms toward Maire for a hug.

Connor eased the little girl into bed beside her and Sasha climbed into her lap wrapping tiny arms around her neck before settling into her arms, toying contentedly with the stuffed kitten.

And Maire's heart exploded.

The thousands of memories that tried to surface in her mind were blurry, like pictures that were out of focus, but the emotion that flooded through her was crystal clear. It was pure and powerful, and Maire knew, without a doubt, that she would do anything, _anything,_ for the child in her arms.

"Hi baby," she whispered, burying her face in the unruly silk of Sasha's hair. The little girl's unique smell, the sound of her breathing, it was all so _familiar._

"Are ye all right, Maire?"

Swiping at her eyes, she looked up at Connor, giving him an unsteady smile and a nod of her head.

"Are ye ready ta give your Ma her gift now, _galya_?" Connor asked, using a single finger to rub Sasha's shoulder.

Sasha looked from Maire to Connor to the stuffed kitten in her arms and nodded. "'Kay."

Reaching into his pocket, Connor produced a slightly mangled crayon drawing. He offered the picture to the little girl, who clutched it to her chest, beaming at Maire.

"Go on," he urged quietly.

Sasha grinned. "Hee!" she said, pressing the paper against Maire's chest.

The paper was folded in half and _Get Well Soon_ had been carefully outlined in neat block letters along with several stars, flowers, and smiley faces. Sasha must have used every crayon in the box to color it in; the effect was extravagant and chaotic.

She had never seen anything more beautiful.

"We made it for ye the other day," Connor said, a blush crawling out of his collar. "I thought that ye'd like ta have somethin' from her."

Maire's eyebrow's shot toward her hairline. Try as she might, she couldn't see Connor, in black shirt and torn jeans, with a crayon held in his tattooed hand, carefully outlining letters and drawing smiley faces. Grinning she opened the card, inside the same fastidious black lettering had been covered by the same bold, colorful scribbles.

_We love you. _

The words crashed through her and tears prickled behind her eyes. It didn't seem fair that these people loved her so much and she didn't know anything about them.

She had no memories of Connor or Murphy with all their kindnesses and concerns. She couldn't remember her _daughter_.

There were no fond memories being pregnant or giving birth. No happy stories about her little girl's antics. She didn't know Sasha's middle name or even who the father was. She couldn't remember her baby's first birthday and had slept through the second . . .

_Wait. _

Maire paused, catching her lip between her teeth. One of the blurry memories in her head suddenly came into focus. "September twenty-third," she murmured, smoothing the unruly silk of her daughter's hair.

Connor looked up at her sharply, brow furrowing. "What?"

Grinning, Maire kissed the top of her daughter's head, the memory was suddenly there as if it had always been. It was her first real recollection of her life before the coma.

Her fingers moving of their own accord to search for a ticklish spot her body alone recalled and a delighted squeal rewarded her efforts. "September twenty-third," she repeated, "is her birthday. I remember."

"You . . ." he broke off laughing, "You remember?"

Still tickling the little girl, Maire nodded laughing with him. It was one memory out of millions lost, but that made it all the more precious.

The kiss was sudden and sweet, Connor's mouth ghosting over hers, his hand brushing her shoulder before he pulled away, eyes wide.

"Ah Christ, Maire, I didn't fuckin' mean ta do that," he muttered, jamming his hands into his pockets, blue eyes sliding away from hers. "I didn't even fuckin' think."

Maire could only stare at him, her mind reeling and her cheeks burning. It had certainly _felt_ like he'd meant it.

"Kiss?" Sasha inquired from her arms.

Absently Maire nodded, staring at the satin hem of the hospital blanket

"Me too!"

Her smile was unsteady and she couldn't meet Connor's eyes as they both leaned in to plant a kiss on each of Sasha's cheeks.

o()o

The courtyard was designed to be peaceful, isolated from the rest of the hospital, a private place for visitors to go to collect their thoughts. It was perfectly landscaped with ornate concrete benches a large fountain at the far end. A chilly breeze blew, making the clouds overhead ripe with the promise of snow.

Pausing in his furious pacing long enough to cup his hand around the end of a much needed cigarette, Connor swore around the filtered butt and flicked his lighter to life.

The nicotine curled through his veins, steadying his hands and soothing his ragged nerves. He finished in a few deep drags and reached for another, continuing to pace the length of the courtyard.

Jesus, the look on her face after he had kissed her . . .

He sighed, rubbing at the headache that threatened to blossom behind his eyes. What the name of Christ on a fucking bicycle had he been thinking?

" Conn?"

Connor looked up, offering his twin a taut smile and the package of cigarettes. "Did ye get her home all right?"

Murphy nodded, pulling a smoke from the pack. "Valerie sent us cookies."

Chuckling, Connor shook his head. "That woman bakes more than fuckin' Betty Crocker."

In addition to a beautiful two-year-old, Sasha's foster parents had apparently taken in two grown Irishmen. Since meeting Valerie Hawkins, Connor and Murphy had never found themselves wanting for baked goods.

"I don't see ye complainin'."

"Fuck no, Val's cookies are fuckin' amazing."

Murphy snorted, clapping him on the back. "I've got ta have a piss, I'll meet ye."

Connor nodded, watching his twin's retreating form before flicking his half-smoked cigarette away and getting to his feet. Maire would be asleep for a while yet, it almost seemed like the doctors were _inventing_ new tests to do to her anymore, but he wanted to be there when she woke up.

He owed her an explanation.

He stopped outside of the room as a flicker of movement inside caught his eye. There was only one other person that would be skulking around her room like that, hovering over her like some perverted guardian angel.

_Whitlatch_.

As if the day couldn't have gotten any fucking worse.

The bastard had to have balls of fucking steel to show his face around here after the article he had published for the Globe. And after taking Connor's threats and throwing them out the window the way he did.

He had to admit, grudgingly, that the article in the Globe was a good one. Whitlatch had turned Maire's waking up into a triumph of hope and the human spirit over the violence and apathy of everyday life; award winning shite, really. Even Murphy had agreed.

But to Connor, the article was a written accusation of how he was responsible for everything that she'd had to endure, of how wretchedly he had failed her.

Connor scowled at the reporter's silhouette, curling his fingers into a tight fist. . For all that he was a weaselly little prick, Whitlatch couldn't be described as any sort of 'evil'. Connor knew he wouldn't hurt the other man.

But a good shaking and a boot in the arse had never hurt anyone as far as he was concerned.

Squaring his shoulders, Connor stepped into the room. "What the fuck, Whitlatch, have ye not exploited the girl enough alread --"

The shadow looked up from where Maire slept, startled, and Connor noticed the syringe in its hand, only a scant centimeter away from Maire's I.V.

That wasn't Whitlatch.

"What the fuck?"

There was a clatter as the syringe fell to the floor and the shadow bolted for the door, shoving past Connor as it raced into the hallway.

Connor sprinted after it, nearly knocking his brother down as Murphy rounded the corner.

"Check her!" he hissed to his twin, ignoring Murphy's bewildered look and trusting his twin to understand.

Navigating the hospital hallways easily, the stranger exploded out of the double doors and into the courtyard. He stumbled and Connor fell onto him, pressing a forearm against his throat.

The stranger was a man, ginger hair neatly gelled into place, his hazel eyes wide and panicked as he struggled to draw in a breath around Connor's arm. He looked like the kind of man that played golf on Saturdays and read business section over a grapefruit in the morning.

"What the fuck were ye doin' in her room?" Connor snarled, using his weight to press down on the stranger's windpipe.

The man gagged in response, clawing at his forearm, and kicking feebly.

Connor freed the man's throat, only to slam the back of his head against the unforgiving concrete of the courtyard's walkway. "How did ye get into her room?"

Choking and coughing, the man gasped in a breath that sounded like it was laced with broken glass. "I pay attention," he wheezed.

Wrong answer.

"Do _not_," Connor spat the words, "fuck with me or I swear ta Christ I will break every bone in your fucking body before I kill you."

The man shook his head frantically, hazel eyes widening. "I waited until security was on their round and the nurses took lunch," he clarified.

That explained why nobody had followed them out here.

Yet.

"What the fuck were ye doin' in there?" he demanded, reintroducing the man's head to the concrete.

There was the sound of familiar footfalls behind him and Murphy called his name. Turning to look at his twin, Connor made the mistake of taking his eyes off the man underneath him.

The blow was vicious and unexpected, catching his temple and sending him sprawling into the perfectly landscaped grass with stars sparkling along the edges of his vision. There was the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked and the stranger scrabbled to his feet, aiming a 9mm at Murphy.

"Move and I'll splatter his brains all over this place," the man warned, rubbing at his throat and slowly backing away.

Murphy uttered a vile oath, body tensing, and the stranger took a step toward him, swinging the gun between them both.

"No funny stuff, man. I'm serious."

Murphy met Connor's eyes, exchanging a long glance, and Connor gave a minute nod, acknowledging what was going to happen, even as he sprang.

The man got a single shot off, the silencer on the barrel reducing the blast to a sound no louder than a champagne cork. Murphy dropped to the ground and Connor collided into the shooter with brutal force, sending them both sprawling back on the ground, narrowly missing one of the concrete benches.

He wrenched the gun from the other man's hand, a savage smile twisting his face as he heard a grotesque, gratifying snap, followed the shooter's agonized howls. He tossed the gun away, toward his twin and raised a fist.

He wasn't acutely aware that he was striking the other man, landing unforgiving blow after unforgiving blow until Murphy grabbed him by the back of his collar, hauling him away from the now incapacitated shooter.

"Enough, Conn!"

Digging his fingers into Murphy's shoulders hard enough to bruise, Connor fought the urge to fall back onto the man, to kill the bastard with his bare hands.

He could do it. He knew he could. He could hear the sound of the breaking bones and the little shit's dying screams.

It was a sensation that he hadn't felt in a long while, not since last summer, not since . . . he shuddered . . . not since Maire had been shot.

"Maire," he grated out the word, desperate to focus on something other than the tantalizing, terrifying images flashing through his brain.

"She's all right." Murphy shoved the abandoned gun into his waistband, covering it with his shirt. "She didn't even wake up. Jesus, Connor, ye're fucking shaking."

"I'm fine."

But he wasn't fine. He was back in an alleyway with a drug dealer's brains splattered over him. He was in a hotel lobby bathed in blackening blood, dead Street Priests all around him. He was standing in a flooded bathroom, beyond grieving, beyond insane, with a gun pressed against his brother's head.

The memories sent another shudder skittering up his spine and drained the murderous fury from his body, leaving him shaken. Unconsciously, his hand went to the rosary around his neck, fingers curling around the crucifix.

He wasn't that man any more.

"What now? We can't just leave him out here." Murphy ran his hand through his hair then over his face, staring down at the prone figure, which was starting to stir.

The question jolted Connor out of his dark thoughts and he followed his twin's gaze. The answer was simple, really. It had been seared into his brain, embedded into his skin, and etched into the very core of his being. It was the same answer that had governed his life for the past five years.

_Evil men: dead men._

He hadn't spoken aloud, but Murphy stilled just the same meeting his eyes and exchanging a long look.

"Aye," he breathed at last. There was no other option.

"Not here," Connor said slowly. "Maire can't know."

Murphy nodded, worrying his thumb between his teeth, and Connor knew that his twin was thinking of Danae.

"Neither of them can know," he amended.

"Aye."

Moving to kneel before the shooter, Connor sucked in a breath as the movement ignited into pain. He pressed his hand against the raw burn that was spreading over his ribs, swearing.

" Conn?"

Jesus. Fucking Jesus that hurt. Connor extended a hand out to his twin, grimacing. "A little help here?" he asked.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ!" Murphy exclaimed, eyes wide.

Connor looked at his hand. His fingers were coated in blood.

"Bullet must've caught me," he muttered, wiping his hand on the manicured lawn, leaving red streaks on the green grass. The adrenaline that had sparkled through his veins was quickly fading away, replaced the by the disturbingly familiar burn of being shot.

Murphy grabbed his forearm, hauling him to his feet, and caught him as he stumbled. "Haven't ye learned to fuckin' _dodge_ those things yet?"

"Fuck ye." Connor groaned, clutching at his side, blood slick between his fingers.

"How bad is it?"

Turning away from his twin, Connor lifted his shirt to examine the wound. There was a deep furrow across his ribcage. It was angry and swollen, the flesh around it already beginning to bruise. It hurt like a bitch, but it wasn't going to kill him anytime soon.

He lowered his shirt, pressing the fabric into the wound to staunch the blood and buttoned his coat. "Just a nick," he said, turning back around. "We can take care of it after we get him out of here."

"That's a lot o' blood for just a nick." Murphy's eyes were narrowed, his expression daring Connor to lie to him.

"I said I'm fine. Now let's get this bastard out o' here before someone decides to call security and we're up to our eyeballs in shit."

"Too late" Murphy inclined his head toward the one of the large windows where a polyester-clad security guard was making his way toward the courtyard.

When the guard opened the door, he was greeted by the sight of Connor and Murphy, alone, side by side on the concrete bench, arguing heatedly.

"Any trouble here boys?" the guard asked, his hand going to the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt.

Connor shook his head, "No trouble here, just a little scuffle with my eejit brother."

"Aye," Murphy echoed the nod. "Ye'd think he'd fuckin' know by now that I'm always right."

"The fuck ye are!"

The guard shook his head, rolling his eyes skyward. "Just try to keep it down, okay? We had a couple of patients complain the noise and I'd hate to have to escort you both out of here."

"Yes sir," they chorused as the guard walked away.

Once the courtyard doors were closed and the guard was safely out of sight, Connor blew out a breath. "Jesus that was close."

Murphy got to his feet, revealing the hapless shooter that had been stuffed under the bench, unconscious again courtesy of his fist.

"Let's hurry up and get this over with." He reached into his pocket and closed his fingers around two pennies, polished to a meticulous shine. Connor never carried more than two with him, but he was never without them.

Pulling them out of his pocket, he offered them to his twin, only to find Murphy mirroring the action, two gleaming pennies in his own palm.

Despite the burning wetness in his side and the unconscious stranger at his feet, Connor snorted.

"Ye fuckin' eejit."

Murphy snorted, shaking his head.

"Let's go."

o()o


	8. Chapter 8

o()o

**_Author's Note:_ **_The movie that Connor and Maire are watching is 'The Long Kiss Goodnight', and is about a woman who has lost her memory. It's always been one of my favorites. :)_  
_**Nifty Fact for the Day:**_Beatus mihi , quod beatus meus frater _is latin, and translates into 'bless me and bless my brother'._ Nusquam subsisto idem eadem idem _loosely translates into 'nothing can stay the same'.  
_

o(8)o

The knife flew across the kitchen, slicing through the tomato and embedding itself in the cupboard with a loud _thwack,_ the reverberations lasting for endless seconds.

There was a moment of astounded silence, then Geena Davis shrugged. "Chefs do that," she declared, grinning.

Looking away from the television screen, Maire met Connor's gaze. "Do you think I'll ever do anything like that?"

Connor chuckled pressing a hand to his side. "Just make sure I'm not in the fuckin' room when ye do."

He had slept the day away, awakening around sunset with his side on fire and his teeth feeling like he had a mouthful of dirty socks, Murphy nowhere to be found. A note taped to a fresh package of cigarettes informed him that his twin had gone for a walk.

Danae had been asleep on the couch, curled around a pillow. He had roused her long enough to discover that she'd come home sick from work before urging her back to sleep, concerned at the unhealthy gray of her skin and the bruised looking circles under her eyes.

Now, sitting in the chair next to Maire's bedside, watching the television as the bad guys broke into Geena Davis's house and blew the piss out of her refrigerator, Connor glanced over at Maire for the thousandth time that evening. It was whenever she wasn't looking, just a quick reassurance that she was safe and awake.

He needed all the reassurance of that truth that he could get.

He'd imagined it so many times, _so many,_ during the last few months he wasn't sure he could ever really believe it was true, that she had come through it all unscathed. A miracle.

_His _miracle.

"Maire," her name escaped him, almost a prayer, a breath of sound.

"Hmmm?" She glanced toward him. "What?"

"I – it's nothing."

"No, what?" she pressed, and he knew his tone had told her it wasn't nothing.

_I made the world a better place. _

The words tickled along his brain, begging to be spoken aloud. Normally they would be translated into a single look, shared with his brother over the rim of a beer mug. But today there had been no beer and no look, no reaffirmation that they had done the right thing, only another lie added to the ones they already told and another secret added to the ones they already kept.

Oh, God he wanted to tell her, he wanted to tell someone.

Looking away, he cleared his throat. "I just need ta get up and stretch my legs a bit. Do ye want anything from the vending machine?"

Maire made a face, wrinkling her nose. "Mystery meat or the meatless mystery? I'll pass thanks."

He arched an eyebrow, "Not even a package of M & M's?"

She looked at him from under dark lashes, the corners of her mouth turning up.

"I'll take that as a 'yes', then," he said, and was rewarded with a giggle and a nod.

Stifling a wince as he got to his feet, Connor extended his hand toward her with a flourish.

"Will ye walk with me?"

o()o

Murphy dipped his fingers into the font of holy water and crossed himself.

"_In nomine patris, et fili, et spiritus sancti._"

The church was still and, for the moment, silent. Rows of empty pews stretched before Murphy like eternity, the low flame from the nearby prayer candles casting eerie, dancing shadows across the wooden benches.

He had left Connor at home, sleeping soundly with the help of leftover painkillers from last fall, the bullet graze on his ribs now neatly bandaged and hidden beneath his shirt.

They had tended to the injury in the bathroom of some fast food joint, greasy and dirty, with Murphy keeping watch while Connor had tried to staunch the bleeding with paper towels. They had left the loo covered in red splatters and reeking of ammonia.

Just like old times

Looking up at the carven image of Christ, he knelt. "_beatus mihi , quod beatus meus frater._" he whispered, his prayer pitched for God's ears only.

It was rare that Murphy ever wanted time to himself. As a rule, he thrived on company and social interaction. But today, he needed to be alone.

Choosing a pew near the front of the church, he sat down and picked up a bible, flipping through the pages idly.

_"Nusquam subsisto idem eadem idem," _he thought, bending a corner of one page back and forth, making neat creases in the thin paper. Everything changes.

Lads turned into men, wounds turned into scars, and time kept marching on whether you kept up or tripped and landed right on your arse. Nothing ever stayed the same no matter how badly you, or anyone else, wanted it to.

Not even your brother.

Grimacing Murphy shut the bible a little harder than he had intended, the sound echoing around the chapel.

Connor's voice had been low and calm as he recited the family prayer, his voice melding with Murphy's like gold with silver. Anyone that didn't know him would assume that he was as comfortable in his role as smiter of the wicked as he had always been.

But Murphy did know his brother, and knew him well. He hadn't missed how Connor had turned his head away when Murphy delivered the other man, and he hadn't missed the look in Connor's eyes. His twin's shame had been so strong that Murphy could feel it like it was his own, clammy fingers wrapping around his heart.

Murphy hadn't been ashamed though. He had been elated.

Curling his fingers around his rosary, thumb rubbing the beads nearest to the crucifix, he stared at the prayer candles until they blurred before his eyes becoming a wash of flickering light.

More than anything in the world right now, he wanted his black duffel. He wanted to feel the cold steel against his palms and prove that he could still take the weapons apart and put them back together again in under a minute. He wanted to prove that his aim was still as true as it had ever been. He wanted to prove that he was still a Saint.

But what good would it do? What good was the calling without someone to share it with? What good was _life_ without someone to share it with?

He had chosen this new life because Connor needed it. And he needed Connor. He had settled into his role as a normal bloke with a normal life with little complaint, willing to do anything to make that haunted look in Connor's eyes go away.

He had compelled himself to be happy working odd jobs for money they didn't really need and to spend the evening in the company of his brother and a cold beer. By an unspoken agreement, they didn't watch the news anymore, the guilt of doing nothing almost as bad for his twin as the guilt over what he had done.

But Connor didn't know that Murphy still snuck a newspaper whenever he could, reading it as he walked alone in the mornings and throwing it away outside of Danae's apartment complex.

Sliding off the pew and onto his knees, Murphy pressed his forehead into his clasped hands and prayed for forgiveness for deceiving the most important person in his life.

Connor didn't know there were still times, in the middle of the night, when Murphy could feel the Lord whispering to him, telling him that he still had important work to do. And Connor didn't know that every so often Murphy's trigger finger itched, as though the tattoo had a life of its own and was as lonesome for the blessed calling as its bearer.

Now, alone in the empty church, only the carven Saints to hear his confession, Murphy sighed, finally admitting to himself what he couldn't admit to anyone. Not even his twin.

He missed being a Saint.

o()o

Waking up next to a beautiful blonde whose name he might or might not have cared to learn the evening before, reading the morning paper with a cup of hot Kona, and an English muffin slathered with blueberry jam, even waking to the occasional 'gift' sent to him by grateful members of whichever mafia he was representing at the time. These were all good ways to start a morning.

_This_ was absolutely not.

People had seemingly come from every nook and cranny to watch the commotion. They gathered in small groups staring at the scene while somehow managing to look elsewhere, displaying the strange mixture of curiosity and apathy that seemed to fuel the human race as a whole.

Idol Ford took a sip of his coffee, refusing to look down at the sheet-covered lump that lay at his feet. He looked the bright yellow tape, the flashing lights of the police vehicles, and the plethora of people that were processing the crime scene.

Anything to keep his eyes off of the body.

People loved to describe Idol with words such as _bloodthirsty _and _cutthroat._ Even the media had dubbed him _venomous _once or twice, but the truth was that he detested violence and blood made him faintly queasy.

Idol had never fired a gun or gotten into any sort of physical altercation. He had people that took care of those things for him, and he paid them good money to assure that his hands were kept clean.

Yet here he was, greeting the sunrise with a cup of coffee that was better suited to dissolve paint than to actually drink in his hand, and a dead body at his feet.

Before he could distract himself with something else, Idol was staring down at the shrouded corpse, the same morbid fascination that bound the rest of the onlookers together finally extending to him.

Blood had soaked through the white linen and pooled in the hollows where he guessed the eyes would have been. It was revolting at best. Reaching out he grabbed the nearest officer, bringing the uniformed man to a halt.

"Officer," he glanced at the badge pinned to the man's shirt, swallowing hard. "Humes, would you be so kind as to explain to me why the South Boston police felt it necessary that I be here?"

The officer gave him a long look before shrugging, jotting something down in his notebook. "The responding officers found your business card in this guy's shirt pocket; they thought maybe you could identify him for us."

A needle of exasperation shot through his discomfort and Idol resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "And did you think to look for any sort of _I.D._ before deciding to call me, Officer? I'm certain a lot of people have my business card."

The officer bristled. "Hey man, I just do what I'm told, okay?"

Now in control of the situation, Idol smiled smoothly. "Well, let me take a look so I can get on with my morning then."

Kneeling, Officer Humes pulled the sheet away from the top half of the corpse, exposing something that barely resembled the human race. Frowning down at the body, Idol took a good look, and then eyebrows shot toward his hairline.

It was Simmons, or rather what was left of him.

Well, that was unexpected.

The young man hadn't been the smartest of interns, but it really was a stretch to send someone to dispose of an incapacitated woman in a hospital and to have them end up dead in some nameless back alley. Even when using an idiot like Simmons.

Hopefully, he had at least managed to accomplish his task before getting his head blown off.

Idol sighed and looked up at the officer, taking a fortifying drink of his coffee. He tried to manage a little dismay at the loss of his employee, but failed. He'd never really liked the young man to begin with.

"His name is Eric Simmons," said Idol. "He was an intern at my office."

"Any idea what he was doing in this part of the neighborhood?"

That was an excellent question. The hospital was several blocks away in the opposite direction, Simmons had absolutely no business being in this area. "I'm afraid not, Officer."

"Does he have any family we can contact?"

"I think he has a mother living in Quincy." Idol made a point of checking his watch before meeting the officer's eyes. "Will there be anything else?"

Officer Humes shook his head and Idol turned away, stepping over the body as he made his way to the edge of the crime scene. If he hurried, he could still make his first appointment of the day.

A jumpsuited C.S.I walked by him, jiggling something in an evidence bag and Idol froze, staring.

In the plastic bag, two pennies gleamed copper through the thick red of Simmons's blood. Pennies exactly like the ones he had kept on his desk since last spring, after discovering them in his office.

Pennies like the Saints of South Boston used to use.

Sighing heavily, Idol took another sip of his coffee and reached for his cellular. It looked like he would be missing his first appointment after all.

o()o


	9. Chapter 9

o()o

_**Author's Note: **A monumental thanks to everyone out there in PC Land who has taken time to read and review and special thanks to Kizume A.W. for all her patience and mad beta skills. What would I do without you guys??_  
**Nifty Fact for the Day: **Tromluí _is Gaelic for nightmare._

o(9)o

_Faster. _

_The darkness was thick and suffocating, blackened hallways stretching endlessly before her and leaving her blind and flailing in their depths. Every so often she could make out a shape, an abandoned wheelchair or a rusted gurney, but there were foul things in the shadows and seemingly empty doorways, things that skittered and lurked and whispered to her with tongueless mouths. _

_Her bare feet slapped against the tiles and her lungs screamed for air. It was merciless punishment on her still healing body. But it wasn't enough. _

_Faster, faster. _

_The thing behind her was closer now, silent and quick as it chased her through the winding halls. It seemed as though it had been chasing her for an eternity, the macabre click of naked bone against the ancient ceramic marking its presence as it chased her. _

_And the smell: the odor burned in her nose and curdled in her stomach, a nauseating blend of acrid smoke and fetid decay. It was the smell of death and neglect. _

_There, in the far distance she could see a pinprick of light, a tiny beacon in the unremitting darkness. A treacherous glimmer of hope gave her strength she didn't know she had, allowing her to make one last desperate burst toward the watery glow. She prayed it would be enough. Just a little more, just a little further and she would be safe. _

_But she wasn't fast enough. _

_Just as she reached the pool of light, a skeletal hand closed around her upper arm, its merciless grip yanking her back into the darkness. All around her unseen eyes watched and the whispers in the blackness turned into guttural laughter. _

_Suddenly she was spinning, being wrenched around, forced to come face to face with her pursuer. _

_Oh God. Oh God, no. _

_Terror stole her voice, reducing what might have been a scream to a noiseless gasp of air and her lungs refused to draw in another breath. She couldn't scream. She couldn't struggle. All she could do was stare. _

_What had once been pale skin was now seared away, leaving places of cooked meat and glistening bone peeking through in the watery light of the naked bulb. A gaping hole and a strip of leathery tissue were all that was left of the funny upturned nose, and fair hair had been scorched away to reveal blackened chunks of scalp and blood encrusted scalp. Eyes that were once clear were now cloudy and dull. _

_But they were still gray. _

_The thing made a sound that was part hiss and part choking gurgle and its grip tightened around her with bruising force, blackened claws digging into the flesh of her arm. _

_Maire held up a hand to ward off the monster and felt the blood on her fingers a moment before she saw it. Everything slowed, the air thickening and she looked down at her midsection, at the gaping hole that was pouring crimson onto the tiles of the floor. _

_The corpse opened its mouth, a deluge of black slime taking the place of gagging laughter as it released her arm, allowing her to sink to the ground. _

_She tried to call for help, but she could only manage a feeble wheeze, mashing her hands into the wound, trying desperately to stop the torrent of lifeblood as it flooded from her body. _

_The corpse attempted to grin down at her, half of its mouth turning up into a savage smile, the other half twitching uselessly. It turned, looking over its charred shoulder to where a figure stood silhouetted in the darkness, the gun still smoking in its shadowed hands. _

_The figure extended the gun toward her, revealing a masculine hand. In the split second before the gun fired, the impact ripping through her, she caught sight of a single word scrawled across a tattooed finger. _

Veritas

_And then the world burst into flames. _

Maire surfaced into the sterile clean of the hospital room with a jolt, fists clenched in the fabric of the pajamas she wore. Tears were streaming down her face and her hair was plastered damply to her forehead.

Kicking off the blankets, her hands flew to her waist, where the gaping wound had been just moments ago, and found her skin whole.

_Just a dream, it was just a dream_.

The bathroom door opened, revealing a figure silhouetted against the dim light and Maire could see the gun in its hands. She recoiled, curling protectively around the long-healed scar that marred her waist. "Don't!" she gasped.

"Maire?" The voice was familiar, accent thick in the dim light of the hospital room. "What's is it? What happened?"

All the air in her lungs rushed out in a breathless sob, and she lowered her head to her hands, releasing some of the terrible trepidation and fear wracking her body.

Connor stepped into the light, one hand out of sight behind his back, and the steel in his eyes cut through her nightmare induced terror like a knife.

Replacing it with an entirely different kind of fear.

"C-Connor?" she stammered, holding out a hand uncertainly.

Connor's face softened at once and he was at her bedside in three long strides, pulling his shirt down over the band of his jeans. "Christ, Maire, ye're shakin' like a leaf. What's wrong?"

"Just a dream." She repeated the mantra aloud, threading her fingers into her hair and making fists around the tangles there. _Just a dream. Not real._

"Want ta talk about it?"

She shook her head, shutting her eyes tightly, "It was terrible. Everything was on fire and . . ." flame-blackened images resurfaced in her mind and the tears that had been welling in her eyes spilled over.

"Ah, don't, don't do that." Connor laid a hesitant, awkward, hand on her shoulder, patting it. "Don't cry."

Maire swiped at her eyes and snuffled, avoiding Connor's gaze. Some forgotten instinct urged her to rest her head on his shoulder and take comfort from him as much as she could, to let him soothe her hurts and fears away.

Instead, she drew her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on them. "God," she whispered, "what's happening to me?"

"Shh," Connor's clumsy pats turned into slow circles that smoothed over her back as a little of the tension seeped from his body. "Everything's all right now, t'was only a _tromluí_."

"A what?"

"_Tromluí,_" he repeated the unfamiliar word, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly. "A bad dream."

"You're bilingual?"

A genuine smile lit his eyes. "A bit more than that, but aye, I am."

Had she known that before? She was too tired and too upset to try to remember. The desire for comfort finally won out and she laid her head against his shoulder, sighing heavily.

Connor's hand faltered in its calming path along her shoulders and he sucked in a startled breath. But as quickly as it had happened, the moment passed and his composure was firmly back in place hands in motion once more.

"Ye're all right," he murmured to her.

Maire squeezed her arms around her legs more tightly, twisting the satin hem of the hospital blanket before tugging it back up over her knees. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Ye can."

"Were we close? Before?"

The naked longing on his face told her all that she needed to know, but he smiled at her anyway, the sight tugging at her heart. "We were, aye," he said, taking the blanket and tucking it around her securely.

"I'm sorry."

"No need for that. Just get some rest now."

Reaching out, Maire caught his hand in between both of hers. "Stay?"

"I'm not goin' anywhere, darlin'." Leaning over, he patted the bedside chair. "I'll be right here next to ye."

She wanted to comfort him and to be comforted by him and the feeling made her brave. Catching her bottom lip between her teeth she echoed his action on the sheets next to her.

His comically surprised expression was almost worth the nightmare. "Are ye sure?" he asked, perching on the very edge of the bed, his hand stilling on her back.

Offering him what she hoped was a semi-confident smile, she nodded. "I'm sure."

Eyes never leaving hers, he toed off his boots and stretched out beside her above the covers. When he patted his chest, an invitation to cuddle up next to him, Maire noticed that his hands were trembling.

She curled into his side, taking comfort in his weight and warmth, being that close to him felt so secure, so _right._ "Keep me safe tonight?" she murmured into his shoulder.

Connor wrapped one strong arm around her, the other smoothing over her hair. She felt him hesitate and then he pressed a kiss against the top of her head.

"Always."

o()o

Nathaniel hadn't bothered to learn the lawyer's name, or even to shake his hand.

Names and pleasantries were for real people. They had no place in a world of suited drones. Mentally, he had already dubbed the other man Slick. It seemed fitting.

Slick was talking to him, probably giving him very exact instructions on what he wanted accomplished, but Nathaniel didn't care. People like Slick contacted him for one reason and one reason alone. Nothing else really mattered, just so long as the job got done.

Instead he focused on the silver letter opener that graced the suit's desk. It was double bladed, silver, with gold wiring threaded into the handle.

Sunlight gleamed along a sharpened edge revealing a tiny nick in the blade, a bloodless wound, and Nathaniel resisted the urge to reach out and run his thumb along the sharpened edge, testing metal against his own scarred skin.

The blade whispered to him, begging him to pick it up and see if it was as sharp as it looked, to see if it could draw blood.

"Have you even heard a word I've said to you?" Slick was impatient, displeased.

Nathaniel didn't really care.

He glanced up at the lawyer, moving his sunglasses to the top of his head, and was pleased when the other man stammered and then fell silent.

It was a common enough reaction, provoked as much by the deep scar that ran down the left side of Nathaniel's face as by the empty socket where his eye should have been. He offered Slick a solemn wink and reached for the letter opener, dragging the tip along the polished glass of the lawyer's desk.

The blade sang as he tested it against his thumb, and then balanced it expertly on one finger, reveling in the way the sharpened point dug into the pad of his fingertip. No blood, but Nathaniel imagined that with a little love and attention that it could be as deadly as any of the other blades he possessed.

Slick pressed his lips together, rising to his feet to snatch the letter opener back and tucking it away in one of the desk drawers. Scowling, he shoved a fat envelope across the now marred glass of his desk.

"Find them and take care of them," he instructed. "You'll get the rest when the job is done."

Nathaniel didn't bother to answer as he took the envelope, thumbing through the bills inside before stowing it in one of the many pockets of his jacket.

Turning away from the lawyer, Nathaniel let himself out of the lavishly decorated office, whistling softly. His mind was already turning, making plans for the games to come.

Slick had no reason to worry. Of course he would find these two men, he would smoke them out and then he would kill them.

And it would be fun.

o()o


	10. Chapter 10

o()o

_**Author's Note: **I hope everyone out there in PCLand had a wonderful weekend! Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed so far, you guys totally make my day! Double thanks to Kizume A.W. for the beta, I'd be lost without her!_  
_**Nifty Fact for the Day: **Today marks the beginning of National Sleep awareness week. _

o(10)o

Danae sucked in a deep breath and held it, staring at herself in the mirror. She gripped the sink tightly, refusing to look at the plastic stick that was sitting on the back of the toilet. Not yet. Not until it was time.

_Four minutes and counting. _

It had to be positive. There was no other explanation for how sick she had been the past week and a half, exhausted and surviving on soda crackers and Sprite alone.

It also explained why she was two weeks late.

The notion sent a quiver of apprehension through her already queasy stomach a reminder of just how serious this situation was and of the choices ahead of her that had to be made. The word _pregnant_ alone was enough to make her heart stutter, but the alternative, for all that she supported the idea of being able to choose, made her stomach go cold.

Danae let her head fall back, staring at the ceiling as though she could draw strength from the tiles above her head. This shouldn't be happening.

They had always been careful, she insisted on it, but apparently someone at the acme condom company had been asleep on the job when her batch had run through.

And now she had to pay for it.

_Three minutes_

It had taken her four separate tries to buy the test, walking back and forth in the aisle of the drug store, picking up the box and putting it down at least a dozen times before giving up and buying a bottle of nail polish instead.

Vibrant Cerulean, Angelic, Rock Star, and Cotton Candy Pink all created a multihued declaration of how badly she didn't want any of this to be true.

Not that her opinion mattered much.

At this point, the test seemed like nothing more than a formality anyway. Every cell in her body was crying out, stridently announcing the changes that were taking place inside of her.

There wasn't enough room to pace in the tiny bathroom, so she had to settle for swaying gently in front of the sink, shifting from foot to foot. She wanted to calm herself down, to hum until she felt better, but for the first time in her life, there was no song stuck in her head, only a list of things that would need to be done. Doctor's appointments, a new budget, the list was endless.

_Two minutes_

And then there was Murphy.

Closing her eyes tightly, Danae grimaced at the thought. Of all the things that scared her about this predicament, Murphy was by far the worst.

She loved him, of course she did, but that didn't change the fact that he was a killer, better suited for gunfire and vengeance than for diapers and formula. Not to mention that he was also a felon and a fugitive.

Once, curled together on the patio watching the sunrise, he had confided to her that when they were apart, all he had dreamt about was a quiet, normal life.

But Danae knew that the coziness Murphy had longed for had quickly turned into claustrophobia.

He didn't know she knew. He had no idea that when he laid with her in bed, impatiently counting the breaths until she fell dozed off and he could get up, the disappearance of his weight from the mattress always woke her.

He never noticed that when he went for a walk to read the newspaper or to watch the news in some grimy bar at the other end of town, keeping his distance so Connor wouldn't find out, that she stood, unseen, and watched his retreating form until it disappeared from sight.

Danae knew that he would always be one of the Saints of South Boston, no matter how hard he pretended not to be.

The thought sent a shudder skittering up her spine, he was walking a dangerous tightrope. One misstep and her baby would grow up just as fatherless as Murphy himself had.

And it was only a matter of time until he slipped.

_One minute. _

What would she do if that happened? How would she raise a child on her own?

Maternal instincts she had never used in her life, and hadn't thought she actually possessed, bubbled up inside of her and she pressed a hand against her belly. It was still flat, devoid of any sign of what was to come, but inside she could almost imagine the first spark of life growing there, helpless and fragile.

Nothing else mattered. Not her, not Murphy, nothing mattered but the baby. Whatever came to pass, she would take care of it.

_Time. _

The butterflies in her stomach sprouted thick, leathery wings and her hands were trembling as she picked up the test, turning it over to look at the results.

One dot.

Fumbling with the directions she looked at the diagram and again at the test, heart suddenly racing, hands trembling.

One dot.

_Negative_.

Blowing out a breath, her eyes unexpectedly burning, she looked at the test again and double checked the directions, but the results hadn't changed. Negative.

Danae sat on the edge of the bathtub, still holding the plastic stick in her hands. It seemed stupid to get so upset something that never had been, but there was something that now seemed to be missing in her, the place where the idea of a baby had been.

One last look at the test, swiping under her eyes, Danae grabbed the bag from the trashcan and squared her shoulders, tossing the test and the directions in.

No sense in risking getting everyone worked up over nothing.

o()o

He had been a split second too slow.

Murphy grappled for the television remote, swearing and mashing buttons in a mad attempt to change the channel, but it was too late. Connor walked in to the living room, a beer for each of them in his hands and froze, staring at the screen.

"Just flippin' channels," Murphy said lamely.

Connor remained silent, still watching intently.

On the television, a pretty brunette newscaster was talking about another convenience store robbery her face solemn as she recounted the death of the owner and one shopper who had been caught in the crossfire

Finally finding the right button to change the station, Murphy aimed the remote words tumbling from his mouth in an attempt to cover his mistake. "I think that one show's on now, just need ta find the right fuckin' station."

"No, leave it." Connor's voice had an odd ring to it and Murphy paused, lowering his hand.

" Conn?"

Eyes never leaving those of the newscaster, Connor offered him a bottle of beer and opened the other.

"How long's it been since we've watched the news?" he asked quietly, taking a long pull from his bottle.

Murphy shrugged. "Six months, maybe more."

Connor looked back at him, head cocked to the side, just slightly. That slight tilt meant he was suddenly seeing more than he had been before. "How long since _you've_ watched the news?"

"About the same." The untruth came easily after such a long time of telling it and in the back of his mind, Murphy wondered when he'd become such a hypocrite.

"Ye're a shite liar Murph," Connor said, settling onto the couch, elbows resting on his knees. "How long?"

He pushed a hand into his hair, and lowered his head, unable to meet the gaze that was so like his own. "Yesterday, while ye were at the hospital with Maire."

Connor didn't move, but Murphy caught the sudden tension in his twin's shoulders. "Been watching it all along, haven't ye?"

Murphy looked away guiltily, taking a fortifying drink of his own beer. "Aye," he said quietly, "and readin' the paper."

"And when did I become unworthy of the truth?" Connor mused dryly, "especially from my own fuckin' brother."

Murphy looked away, rubbing at his nose before bringing his thumb to his mouth. _About the time you lost your fucking mind, slaughtered over a dozen people and nearly added ourselves to the body count, _his mind supplied.

Connor stiffened as though Murphy had spoken aloud, his fingers tightening around the beer bottle.

" Conn, listen," he began, but Connor cut him off, getting to his feet and gesturing angrily.

"What the fuck, Murphy?"

Murphy hadn't really been aware of his own aggression building, simmering just below the surface, but suddenly, he was on his feet so close to his twin that he could smell the beer on Connor's breath. He could feel the tension thrumming through his brother's body as clearly as he felt his own. Words fired back and forth like bullets, drowning out the angry shouts of the other.

". . . fuckin' said something . . ."

". . . I didn't fuckin' want. . ."

". . . couldn't even tell me . . ."

". . . fuckin' _killed_ . . ."

They needed this, more than he had realized, but Murphy wouldn't give his twin the satisfaction of throwing the first punch.

". . . haven't a fuckin' clue. . ."

". . . couldn't let it. . ."

". . . give a rat's arse. . ."

Connor clenched his fist, his features tight and hard and Murphy leaned forward, eyes narrowed.

"Do it, pussy."

Connor jerked and slammed a fist into his gut, but he was ready for it, catching his brother's arm before he could recoil. Connor's leg nicked the shade of a lamp as Murphy threw him down, but he barely heard the crash.

". . . should have fuckin' known. . ."

". . . ye're a right fuckin' . . ."

". . . oh, listen ta this . . ."

Connor bucked him off and they rolled. Somehow Murphy ended up pinned in a puddle of spilled beer.

". . .never wanted. . ."

". . . all I fuckin' wanted. . ."

". . . never meant ta. . ."

". . . never meant ta. . ."

". . . ye're my fuckin' brother. . ."

". . . ye're my fuckin' brother. . ."

The room fell silent, and Connor's fist dropped to his side. He moved from his position towering over Murphy to lie beside him.

"Son of a bitch," Murphy said, holding his hand to his mouth, bottom lip split and bleeding. "Feel better?"

"Aye," Connor replied and flexed his hand gingerly, several of his reddened knuckles already turning purple. "Are ye all right?"

Murphy coughed then swore, wishing he could spit out the blood that was leaching into his mouth. "I'm fine."

"Do we need ta raid the freezer?"

"We'd best not. Danae'll kill us if we keep usin' up her frozen vegetables for ice packs."

Connor snorted and bobbed his head in agreement. "We do go through quite a few of them."

Reaching, Murphy grabbed the spilled bottle of beer, taking a drink of what little was left and offering it to his twin. "What the fuck were we fightin' about again?"

Connor opened his mouth to reply, but the television did the job for him, the pretty brunette newscaster bringing a hand to her ear and listening intently.

"We're going to interrupt this story for breaking news from just east of Boston where police have supposedly discovered the body of reputed mafia underboss, Dmitri Czechlaka, murdered in his own home. Julie Jones is on scene reporting."

Connor rolled over onto his belly, frowning up at the screen but Murphy was content to crane his neck, watching the news upside down.

The screen split, revealing the image of another newscaster standing outside of a ring of yellow tape in an upper scale neighborhood. In the background, several onlookers and the plethora of police officers that were investigating were bathed in the flash of red and blue lights.

There was a pause then the reporter nodded. "Thanks Beth. We've just received official report that Dmitri Czechlaka _has_ been pronounced dead by the county medical examiner. We don't have confirmation yet, but outside sources tell us that Czechlaka was found shot twice in the head, arms crossed, pennies in both of his eyes."

A dark hand came into the camera shot and the reporter was jostled out of the way with an affronted cry.

A group of kids, probably no older than twenty, took her place on the screen, all of them banded together and shivering in the Boston chill.

"It's the Saints man," one of them said, jabbing a finger at the camera. "They're back. They _knew_ he was no good and they came back to take him out."

Riotous cheers came from the group behind the young man, accompanied by several encouraging shouts, and Connor looked away to arch an eyebrow in Murphy's direction.

"Another set of copycats," he said.

Murphy nodded, the back of his head scrubbing against the carpet. "At least they're using fuckin' pennies this time. The last ones used, what, car wash tokens?"

Connor scoffed, rolling his eyes heavenward, "Aye, fuckin' retards."

On the screen, the group of kids was still cheering and yelling and Murphy took the moment to offer his twin an apologetic glance. " Conn, listen . . ."

Connor held up a silencing hand, the other grappling in his pocket to produce a slightly-squashed pack of cigarettes.

"Shut it." his twin said, tapping two smokes out of the package, tossing one onto Murphy's chest. "I can't run from everything forever, Murph."

Murphy remained silent, picking up the cigarette and watching it dance across his knuckles. That was exactly what they had been doing for the past six months. Running, hiding, and ignoring what they were meant to do.

What they had been _called_ to do.

Reaching over to thump him on the chest, Connor offered him an odd-half smile. "I think I've kind of missed watchin' the news."

o()o


	11. Chapter 11

o()o

_**Author's Note: **It's been too long! Thanks to everyone who checked in on my in my absence. You guys are the best!**  
****Nifty Fact for the Day: **_Cosa Nostra _is a term used in context with the Italian mafia. _Bratva _is Russian for brotherhood and is a term used to describe the Russian organized crime syndicates. The M.E.'s use of hedge clippers instead of bone cutters is based on actual fact. :)  
_

o(11)o

Life had a rotten way of ramming its destiny-shod foot right up your ass sometimes.

Eyes dry and gritty, a latté clutched in one hand, Paul Smecker ran a hand through his hair, disheveling it further.

The FBI had yanked him off of one of his most important cases to stick him on a god-forsaken flight back to the one place in the world he'd rather have a root canal than return to.

He'd been trailing that Cosa Nostra bastard for friggin' months and had been an ass-hair away from bringing him in, and now it was all for nothing.

And it was all because of them.

The crime scene had been a gore-smeared mess, a dozen news stations already there, the reporters crowding around the potential story and the local P.D. had spent more time traipsing around trying to look important for the newscasters than actually doing their job.

And, as if that weren't bad enough, every slack-jawed local still living in mommy's basement playing the Nintendo had changed out of their Klingon costume to come out and watch the spectacle.

The entire scene had been infuriatingly useless, leaving Smecker only one place left to go.

Damnit.

He was greeted by a blast of chilly air and the sharp tang of disinfectant. Stainless steel as far as the eye could see managed to make the room feel both sterile and lifeless.

Except for brightly colored magnetic letters that were stuck to the body drawers.

Some of them were chaotic jumbles, but others spelled out the rainbow-hued names of the corpses within. Smecker stared at the letters, trying to work up the energy to be offended and failing. Finally, he dismissed them with a sigh, some things never changed.

Behind him, the door swung open and another person joined him in the morgue. The man was tall, or would have been if he weren't permanently stooped, back bowed from years spent hunched over the autopsy table. A Styrofoam cup of coffee was in one hand and the other was next to his ear, fiddling with one of the hearing aids he wore.

A high-pitched squeal split the silence, making Smecker wince, and the other man swore, coffee sloshing over the rim of the cup as he quickly readjusted the hearing aid, ending the nerve-shredding sound.

"Damn things. Agent!" he greeted Smecker, raising his coffee slightly before taking a drink and grimacing into the cup. "Nice to see you again."

"Wish I could say the same."

The M.E. arched an eyebrow. "I'm wounded, Agent, truly. Let's get started, shall we?"

Smecker inclined his head in agreement. "What have you got for me?"

Opening one of the cooling chambers and setting his cup inside, the M.E. turned to the sheeted body on the autopsy table.

"Dmitri Czechlaka," he said, pulling the sheet down, revealing what was left of the man beneath. "Fifty two years old, C.O.D. appears to be two gunshot wounds to the back of the head."

Smecker stared down at the table, eyebrows shooting toward his hairline. He'd been thumbing through Czechlaka's dossier just last week, the man was a prominent Russian mobster, former KGB and well respected among his peers. The Bratva was going to be pissed when it discovered he'd been taken out.

"Lovely," he said grimly, a heavy sigh building in his chest.

The M.E. tugged on a pair of rubber gloves with a cringe-inducing snap, and reached for a scalpel. "Not really, the shots blew the poor sap's eyeballs clean out of his head. I expect they're splattered on a wall somewhere, along with the slugs."

"Anything else?" Smecker hid a wince with a sip of coffee as the older man began the autopsy procedure, slicing through the corpse's skin with the ease that came from years of experience.

"Fair amount of cocaine in his system and two coins were found in the eye sockets." The M.E. gestured with his chin to a stainless steel basin behind Smecker, gloved hands hidden inside the cavity of the corpse's torso. "They're in the dish over there."

Smecker gave the basin a haphazard glance and nodded. "Thanks."

"The impact from the shots shattered both his infraorbitals and sphenoids. I had to practically dig the coins out of what was left of his brain. "

Giving the contents of the basin another long look, Smecker felt his stomach clench. Perfectly shined copper, tainted only by the coagulating jelly of blood it was coated with. It was the one thing never released to the press, the one thing copycats never got right: painstakingly burnished pennies. The ones in the basin were the same that the Saints would have used, that they had used in the past.

The jangling of the morgue telephone, grabbed his attention, and Smecker looked away from the pennies to see the M.E., one gore-smeared hand wrapped around the receiver, listening intently.

"That's fine," he said at last, "just bring him on down whenever you're finished."

Smecker arched an eyebrow as the other man ended the call, returning his attention back to the corpse before him.

"That was the body-wagon. They're bringing in another one for us. Egor Daletsky, found murdered in his home precisely the same as Mr. Czechlaka here was.

Smecker's eyebrows shot toward his hairline. Apparently the now-defunct Sacerdotes ° la Calle hadn't been enough to make them take a break. The violence that they had reaped before hadn't been enough.

The thought, along with a weighty splat as the M.E. plopped something pink and rubbery-looking into another basin, sent a shudder skittering up the agent's spine.

The police had never found the person behind last spring's killing spree. The local P.D. had found the gun used in all the murders in a trashcan, wiped clean of any prints, serial number expertly filed away.

Only Smecker knew that the ballistics report of that gun matched the one that had been done for the Saints of South Boston, the one he had so skillfully buried, perfectly. Only he knew that the gun had been Connor's.

Working with the MacManus brothers was a bittersweet burden, he envied their ability to cut through the red tape of the judicial system and dispatch justice with a bullet and a prayer. He often found himself wishing he could do the same.

But last spring had changed all that. Connor had stepped over the fine line that separated vigilante and butcher and had become the thing he had railed against so fervently when their lives had first collided. The Irishman had come dangerously close to stepping into Smecker's territory. Smecker swallowed the icy feeling in the pit of his stomach and had covered for Connor on principle alone, because of all the good he had done in the past.

He wouldn't do it again.

Looking up as the M.E. set his scalpel aside, agent felt his eyes widen as the other man picked up a wicked looking pair of . . . he couldn't frigging be seeing this.

"Are those _hedge clippers_?"

The M.E. shrugged, carefully situating the shears between the corpse's exposed ribs and bracing his elbows. "Budget cuts are a bitch," he said with a weighty sigh, "and I can go to any old hardware store and get these for half the price of commercial bone cutters."

The crunch that punctuated the M.E.s words was enough to make Smecker fumble his coffee.

It really was shaping up to be one of those days.

o()o

It should have been good news.

She was still sitting on the hospital bed, her chin resting on her knees, exactly where she had been half an hour ago when the doctor had given her the news. She barely moved when Connor came into the room, bickering with Murphy. Now his words halted and his eyes ran over her.

"Ye all right, darlin'?" he asked, stilling, brow furrowed.

She nodded and tried to force a smile, and failed miserably. Tears prickled behind her eyes making her nose sting. It should have been good news.

A warm hand covered hers, Connor's fingers intertwining with hers. Murphy came to stand on the opposite side, frowning down at her.

"Maire?"

"The . . ." her voice broke. She cleared her throat and tried again. "the doctor came to talk to me today."

Beside her, Connor tensed, and Maire heard his breath catch. "And?"

"He told me that I can go home next week."

Both brothers blew out a relieved breath at the same time, identical smiles splitting their very different features.

"That's great news," said Connor giving her hand a reassuring squeeze.

Murphy nodded. "It is at that. So why do ye look like someone just shot your dog?"

The tears she had been fighting spilled over, slipping down the bridge of her nose. "Because I don't think I have a home anymore," she whispered. "I can't remember where I live."

Over her head, Connor and Murphy exchanged a glance that was a split second too long before Murphy reached down to muss her hair.

"Listen ta this tripe," he said with a grin.

Connor nodded his agreement. "Maire, darlin', we've been planning for ye ta stay with us when ye were released all along. Danae's got it all planned out already."

"Did I live with you before?"

"Ye didn't, but we were neighbors."

Murphy made a grand gesture. "Ye lived upstairs from us, Conn used ta tell ye jokes through the vent just ta hear ye laugh. Sasha used ta toss your loose change down onta our heads in the morning."

Connor chuckled. "Aye, we got more than a few dimes and nickels in our flakes."

Maire's heart warmed at their words, a smile tugging at her lips. There was a place full of memories waiting on her, someplace where she could sift through mementos and pictures and be surrounded by things that were once familiar. And maybe she could get her daughter back sooner rather than later.

"I can't wait to see it."

Silence fell, sudden and thick, and butterflies began to form in Maire's stomach.

"What?"

Murphy looked away, pressing his lips together. Connor's eyes dropped to the floor, and his hands tightened around hers again, squeezing harder this time. She saw his jaw clench.

"We couldn't keep it empty longer than a month, new people are there now."

His words were like physical blows and her hope deflated on itself. "It's all gone?"

"We packed what we could; it's in Danae's basement now, safe and sound."

"What's left?"

"We got three good-sized boxes."

"Three-?"

Three boxes. She had nothing, no warm home, no happy memories, no comforting mementos, there was nothing waiting for her outside of this hospital room but more fragmented nightmares.

"Hey," said Connor, his eyes imploring as he settled beside her on the bed. "Hey now."

Tears were falling again; harder now, making her shoulders shake. "How could there only be three boxes?"

Connor sighed, his face troubled and Murphy brought a thumb to his mouth, worrying the nail between his teeth.

"There was a fire."

Slipping an arm around her shoulders, Murphy leveled the other side of the bed as he sat. "It's not so bad, luv. Ye still have us."

Nodding, Connor smiled down at her, eyebrows raised. "Aye, for what it's worth."

Snuffling hard, Maire swiped at her nose. "Thanks."

"Danae'll help too. She's been talking about wanting ta go shopping for months," Murphy exchanged a long-suffering grimace with his twin. "I'll gladly let ye take my place on that."

Connor made a small noise of sympathy for his twin's plight and patted Maire's knee through the blanket that covered her legs. "She'd love ta have ye along. I know that."

"We'll keep remindin' ye o' things too," said Murphy. "Tell ye stories and the like. It's a little known fact, but all MacManuses are brilliant storytellers."

"Well," Connor said, grinning, gesturing toward himself "some of us are storytellers and some of us are just thundering bullshiters."

"Fuck ye!" Murphy's hand shot out to swat at his brother.

Maire laughed.

o()o


	12. Chapter 12

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Wow, what an amazing response to the last chapter. Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to read and review. At the moment, your feedback is pretty much all that's spurring NotG on, I appreciate all the feedback and encouragement!  
**Nifty Fact of the Day:**The bit about the Listerine is based on a true story involving my own brother and our great-gran. I still wince whenever I think about it. Ouch!  
**Special Thanks: **To Kizume A.W. for her amazing beta skills, it's been a while since I properly thanked her for her patience and talent. You're the best sweetie, I don't tell you that enough!_

o(12)o

There was no mistaking that the two were brothers.

No more than seven or eight, they were fighting loud enough to draw the attention of other people in the parking lot. One dark and one light, each brother was standing on tiptoe, shouting at the top of his lungs, small fists clenched.

Flicking away his cigarette butt, Connor leaned against the rotten wood of Danae's patio and sent a white swirl of breath and smoke curling toward the sky. He watched the boys with a smile, waiting for his twin to join him.

A solid shove sent the darker-haired boy stumbling backwards, shouting angrily even as he landed hard on his rear end.

"Looks like they're about ta kill each other." The grin was evident in Murphy's voice as he offered Connor his pack of cigarettes, a smoke already between his lips.

"Aye."

The first punch was thrown, the lighter-haired brother tumbled to the ground and the argument turned into a brawl.

"Think we ought ta break it up? Grab each one by an ear like Ma used ta do?"

Connor shook his head, chuckling. "They'll figure it out soon enough."

Cupping his hand around the end of his cigarette, Murphy made a quiet noise of satisfaction as he drew in his first lungful of nicotine. "My bet's on the scrawny one then. Lad looks like he has spunk."

"Ye're on."

Chuckling softly, Murphy pried a chunk of paint off of the decaying patio. "Do ye remember that fight we had at Gran's that summer when we were kids?"

Connor snorted, retrieving himself another smoke and flicking his lighter to life. "Which one?"

"The one when I shoved ye inta her briar patch."

The wince that accompanied the memory was involuntary. By the time he'd managed to untangle himself from the thorny plants he'd been scraped and bloodied from head to toe, and had carried the scars for that entire summer. "No forgetting something like that or the fact that Gran used fuckin' Listerine ta clean out the scratches."

Murphy choked on the drag he was in the middle of taking. "Christ, I'd forgotten about that. Daft fuckin' woman."

"I think the word Ma used was resourceful."

"Daft," his twin insisted and Connor bobbed his head in agreement.

"Aye."

The darker brother hit the asphalt face first, and both Connor and Murphy winced sympathetically.

"Speaking of resourceful: how are we goin' ta work the sleepin' arrangements when Maire gets out o' the hospital on Wednesday?"

His twin's words sent a bittersweet jolt of emotion through Connor and he managed to shrug. "We'll figure something out."

Eight months after being shot, Maire was being released from the hospital in two days. And Connor was certain he'd never been such a wreck.

When he had first discovered that she had no memory, he had been devastated. But now that she was starting to recall things, her memories coming in the from of terrifying nightmares, Connor found himself more disconcerted than when she'd had no memories at all.

How long would it be before he had to tell her the awful truth: to confess to her that the torture and pain of the last eight months had been his fault?

Murphy had forgiven him without a second thought, absolved him even before he had finished sinning. But Maire? How could he ask forgiveness for a transgression she didn't remember?

Across the parking lot, another punch was thrown by a small fist and Connor wondered which was worse, the blow, or the hell the boy was going to catch when his Ma saw the hole that had been torn in his pants.

Exhaling a white plume into the chilly air, Murphy followed it with a succession of perfect smoke rings, each smaller than the last.

"That'll get his arse paddled," he said conversationally, tilting his head toward the boy, who had gotten to his feet and was launching himself at his counterpart. "Ye're scared shitless aren't ye?"

The observation provoked a surprised laugh from Connor. "Fuckin' scary bastard ye are."

Murphy shook his head, "Just a twin is all."

"Fuckin' scary twin," Connor amended, laughing as he dodged his brother's fist.

Across the parking lot, a woman that could only be the boys' ma had arrived, effectively ending the fight as she dragged the two apart, looking between them as though she were trying to decide whose head to chew off first.

The lighter-haired boy drew the short straw and Murphy chuckled, watching them. "Looks like I win."

"Come on," he said, "The news is on."

o()o

"Its seems as though the elusive Saints of South Boston have picked up their mantle once again and are wasting no time getting down to business, bringing the total body count so far to four. WGTV will be following the story on scene as it develops."

Elbows on his knees, Murphy leaned forward, scowling at the fetching brunette newscaster.

"Enthusiastic bastards," Connor commented, bottle of beer hanging from between his fingertips.

"Aye."

The news reporter gestured and the screen split in two. "We're taking you live to the home of the late Yuri Tarasov. Sensitive viewers may want to turn away. "

"Holy fuck," Connor muttered, bringing a hand to cover his mouth, eyes widening.

Murphy followed his brother's gaze and felt his stomach drop.

"Christ."

Blood was everywhere, pooling on the floor, smeared on the walls; everywhere. Had they left the same carnage behind after their missions?

The reporter continued on. "Tarasov is said to be a soldier in the growing Russian Mafia that has taken root here in Boston. . ."

Murphy remembered crashing through the heating duct on their first job, bound to his twin with a length of Connor's stupid-fucking-rope, upside down and more panicked than he could ever remember being in his life as he fired again and again, delivering each of the men in the room with a bullet and a spray of blood.

It had been a mess, gore everywhere but it still seemed to pale in comparison with the images that were filling the TV screen at that moment.

"What the fuck is this, then?" Murphy gestured at the screen with his beer bottle.

Connor had gone pale. "Shut it," he whispered.

"Conn?"

His twin held up a silencing hand. "I said fuckin' shut it, Murph."

A gust of wind ruffled the reporter's hair and the camera refocused on the scene behind her, a mess of yellow tape bathed in red and blue flashing lights.

"In a chilling twist to an already gruesome story, police have just told WGTV reporters that the body showed signs of torture, broken bones, contusions, and multiple lacerations.

Murphy fell silent, his gaze flitting between the horrible scene on the television, and his brother, who sat ashen and stone-faced.

"Torture?" the word felt thick and foreign on his tongue. It was a word that was thrown around easily, taken for granted: listening to Connor snore with a sinus cold: torture, shopping with Danae: torture. A bar that didn't serve Guinness: torture. But this was the real deal, blood and bone and pain and the mere thought of it made his blood run cold.

Connor remained silent; the diminutive muscle in his jaw flexing and Murphy shot his twin a sidelong frown.

"Just like me," his twin finally whispered and Murphy's stomach gave a nauseated lurch.

"Bullshite." The word came out more forcefully than he intended and he covered it with a swallow of beer.

Twins or no, there were plenty of things that defined them as individuals. Murphy liked spicy food, Connor hated the smell of candle wax, Murphy had freckles smattered over his shoulders, Connor played a wicked game of table tennis. Murphy had a thing for brunettes.

Connor had lost his mind and butchered and tortured half a dozen people last spring.

Even now, Murphy could barely wrap his mind around the fact.

Sucking in a deep breath through his nose, Connor mashed a hand against his face before rubbing at his eyes. "Jesus Christ."

Half explicative, half prayer, the words were accompanied by both brothers crossing themselves.

"What the fuck do we do?"

"We've just received word from the South Boston Police Department that Tarasov wasn't the only victim of this brutal crime. Detectives have just discovered the bodies of Angelica Tarasov, Yuri's wife and their ten year old son, Petya also shot and showing signs of torture."

The bottle of beer slipped through his fingers, spilling across the floor before coming to rest under Danae's coffee table, and Murphy was certain that his heart had stopped with it.

A ten-year old boy.

Fuck.

o()o


	13. Chapter 13

o()o

_**Author's Note: **The last half of this chapter is dedicated to Nyah1 for settling for nothing less than what she requested. I hope its what you wanted, sweetie. :)  
**Nifty Fact of the Day:** The word_ íochtar _(eek-tur) literally means lower part and is often used for the youngest child in an Irish family._

o(13)o

Slick was pissed.

Nathaniel sat across from the lawyer, Slick's angry words flowing over him in a meaningless wash. Something about not doing the job right, Nathaniel didn't really care.

The blade in his pocket was new, taken from one of the Russki's homes, too beautiful to leave behind. He had spent hours getting it just the way he wanted it, making it perfect. Now, he flicked it open and closed inside of his pocket, memorizing the muted sound it made.

_Open._

Slick was still rebuking him, something about using guns. Nathaniel flicked the blade open, skimming his thumb over the sharpened edge. He had used a gun, on every single one of the people that Slick had designated to die, and he would continue to use the gun until he finished the list. But he wasn't about to deny himself the chance to play. Not when he was being forced to stoop so low to begin with.

_Closed._

Guns were a distant and impersonal weapon, a sign of weakness. Guns were for people who couldn't stomach the sensation of skin splitting under a perfectly sharpened blade, who didn't want to see the blood as it welled from a red-lipped wound.

Knives, on the other hand, were up close and personal, the perfect weapon. Nathaniel could smell the blood as it flowed, he could feel its warmth, hell, he could taste it if he wanted to. There was no comparison at all. Men used knives, only a milquetoast would stoop to using a gun.

_Open_

The lawyer was gesturing angrily to the newspaper on his desk, a thick Sunday edition, jamming a finger into an article on the front page. Nathaniel couldn't see what he was pointing to and didn't bother to look any closer. He was getting bored with this meeting.

". . . were you thinking, killing the woman and the boy? I . . ."

_Closed._

For a moment, he considered lying to the lawyer, telling the other man that they were witnesses, accidents, he thought they might be tasty, something, anything to shut the other man up. But doing so would be lie.

And above all other things, Nathaniel respected the truth. Even when it came to suited, mindless, corporate drones.

_Open._

His thumb slipped over the knife, slicing the pad open, and he couldn't stop the smile that spread over his face at the sudden sting and the heat of his own blood as it seeped into the already-stained fabric of his pocket. He had done right by this blade, no question about it. It was perfect.

Now Slick was really pissed.

"You think this is funny? I'm paying you to . . ."

_Closed._

Bringing the handle of the knife to his wounded thumb, Nathaniel prodded the injury, taking care not to smile as broadly this time. He had read once somewhere that certain people liked to be hurt because they enjoyed the rush of endorphins that came after the initial pain.

Nathaniel just liked the pain.

_Open._

And he'd had enough of Slick wasting his time.

". . . don't think I can't find someone else to do . . . "

Pushing back from the opposite side of the desk, he regarded the other man coolly for a moment before pulling the blade from his pocket.

There was a flash of movement, fluid and smooth and the knife embedded itself in the newspaper, scant inches away from the lawyer's hands, severing the other mans' angry rant.

Leaning in, grinning, Nathaniel could smell the lawyer's fear as he pulled the knife out of the business section, the blade so sharp now that it didn't tear the paper when he did.

He clapped Slick on the shoulder, leaving a smear of blood where his injured thumb had rested, turned and walked out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

He was nowhere near finished with this game.

_Closed._

o()o

Murphy was pacing, thrumming with barely contained energy. His normal fidgets had become a silent symphony of movement, physical testimony that his mind was in the same chaos as Connor's own.

A ten year old boy and his mother, tortured and murdered in their own homes, pennies in their eyes.

Fuck.

Fuck!

Connor stared at the television, unseeing, still holding his untouched bottle of beer. "Sit down, Murph," he said quietly.

If anything, his words seemed to provoke his already agitated twin further.

"Someone out there is pretending ta be us and is killing fuckin' children, Connor. I don't think 'sit down' is really a fuckin' choice here."

Connor remained silent. His twin was right; of course, sit down wasn't even close to an option.

"We have ta do something," said Murphy.

"I know."

"Connor, that lad was ten fuckin' years old."

"I know. Shut it now, and let me think."

But Connor couldn't think, he could only feel. And it hurt.

He couldn't risk picking up a gun again, not after what had happened last spring. He didn't know how much distance there really was between the man he had been, the man he was trying to be again, and the stranger that had taken him over last spring, and he was terrified that it wasn't nearly far enough.

He couldn't abandon the lie he had worked so hard at turning into truth and he couldn't abandon Maire, not again.

But this couldn't go on.

He didn't know what to do.

"We have ta stop whoever's doing this." The energy in the room changed, like the sky before a storm, and Connor looked up from the television to see Murphy staring down at him, eyes dark and narrowed. "We don't have a choice."

Connor met his brother's gaze and held it. The conversation was silent.

It was Murphy who looked away first, cutting the exchange short and nodding slightly to himself as some decision that Connor hadn't been privy to was made. "I'll go this one alone."

The words were like physical blows, and Connor jerked under the weight if their impact. "What? No! No fuckin' way."

His twin was uncharacteristically still, head bowed, looking at something only he could see. "Conn, you can't do this," he said quietly, "ye're not ready."

Connor was on his feet before he'd made a conscious decision to move, gesturing angrily with his beer. "I'll fuckin' get ready."

Murphy shook his head, eyes still far away. "No."

"Damnit, Murphy." He gave his brother a rough shove, but Murphy didn't move, didn't even look up. "I'm not some fuckin' mollycoddle that needs ta be fuckin' sheltered from the evils of the world."

"No, but I know ye haven't been sleeping."

"I fuckin' sleep fine."

Murphy looked up, eyes narrowed. "Don't fuckin' lie ta me, Connor, I know better."

The anger that had flared so brightly a moment ago was extinguished and Connor pressed his lips together, looking away. The nightmares that had been dropping off in frequency had been making a comeback since the first newscast. He'd had two just last night. He should have known Murphy would figure it out sooner or later; there were very few secrets when you were a twin.

"T'isn't that big a deal."

"Ye're not fit for this job, and if ye go, ye'll get us both killed." Murphy came to settle next to him on the couch, thumb at his mouth. "You know this is how it has to be."

Connor did know, and guilt was instant in its attack, making its way up his chest and into his throat until he had to swallow down something like nausea. He sank back down on the couch beside his brother. "This is totally fucked."

"Nothing to be done about it now."

Rising to his feet, Murphy clapped Connor on the shoulder, offering him a tight, humorless smile. His brother disappeared out of the living room, only to reappear moments later, black duffel in his hands.

The sight of the bag sent a shudder through Connor and he clenched his jaw tightly against the swell of emotions that suddenly threatened to overwhelm him. He could still feel the chill of the water as it flooded around his ankles, hear the glass of the broken mirror as crunched under his boots. It was as if he had never left that grimy bathroom last spring, as if he would be trapped there forever.

_His shoulder collided into Murphy's mid-section with a sickening, satisfying crunch._

_Murphy doubled over, crashing backwards into a stall door before sinking into a wretched heap against the grimy toilet._

_As his twin collapsed, Connor reached around him, past the torn gray shirt, fumbling for what he knew had to be there. Grinning savagely as he found his prize, his twin was nothing if not predictable, Connor yanked the gun free from Murphy's waistband, pressing against his brother's head._

_Now he would pay._

He could smell the odor of gun oil, sweat, and blood as his brother unzipped the bag and swallowed hard as his stomach lurched in retaliation.

Even after all this time, he could still feel the blood of the people he'd hurt, crusting on his face and sticky between his fingers. He could still hear the sounds they made as they died.

He could still see his twin's face as Murphy, broken and defeated, had waited for his own death at Connor's hands.

He wanted to turn away, to close his eyes against the sight and close his mind against the memories, but he couldn't. Wouldn't.

The least he could do was stand there, useless as he may be, while his twin prepared to start a mission without him.

Murphy didn't look up as he pulled out a gun and expertly checked the sights. "I'll start first thing tomorrow. And Conn?"

Connor swallowed hard, tearing his eyes away from the gun in his brother's hands. "Aye?"

"Nobody else can know."

o()o

Danae hated this.

She'd been in the medical field for as long as she could remember, but being on the other side of the desk, so to speak, never ceased to disconcert her. It had taken a modest amount of willpower not to register herself and take her own vitals when the nurses took too long.

The blood tests had been even worse.

It had dawned on her in the waiting room, that she was exactly how old her mother had been when the other woman had received a crushing, crippling, diagnosis of her own. There had been a cabinet full of prescriptions that left her sicker than the disease that was inside of her and endless nights spent in too-quiet hospital rooms.

Danae and her brother had become orphans six short months later.

The idea had wormed into her brain, greasy and cold, and had been gnawing there ever since, by the time the nurse had called her back to the exam room, Danae had almost turned and ran the other direction. If she didn't know, didn't have proof that something was wrong with her, then maybe it wasn't really happening.

Now, the exam room was so silent, that she imagined she could hear the rain falling on the street outside. Perched on the exam table, she sat perfectly still, back straight, nervous fingers fraying the hem of her paper hospital gown. The last time she'd been this anxious, she'd been duct-taped to a chair.

Her greatest fear was that this would be just as life-threatening.

The door opened and she jumped as the doctor walked into the room. He was a kind man, with kind eyes; he had been Danae's physician for as long as she could remember.

"Okay, Danae, lets see what we've got," he said, glancing down at the chart. "Your blood sugar is a little low, but still in the normal range, your white count is good and so is your BMP. Everything seems to have come back just fine."

Danae hadn't been aware that she was holding her breath until it exploded out of her in a relieved rush. "Thank you."

The doctor looked at her and chuckled, shaking his head. "Always worrying, aren't you?"

Danae's own laugh was shaky, too loud for the quiet room. "Someone has to."

"Well rest assured that you're perfectly healthy," he paused, eyebrows raising toward his receding hairline, "although it looks like your hCG levels are way up."

Danae's relieved sigh froze in her throat and her heart missed a beat. "That's impossible," she blurted, hands going back to the tattered hem of the paper gown.

The doctor turned the chart around so she could see it. "Says so right here. You weren't aware of this?"

Danae shook her head, she didn't have chance to even try to stop the tears before they were welling in her eyes, dangerously close to spilling over. "Are you sure?"

"The blood test doesn't lie, Danae." Reaching behind him, the doctor picked up a box of Kleenex and offered it to her. "Do you need a minute?"

She shook her head, plucking out a handful of tissue and blowing her nose. "I just . . . I mean . . ." the words stuck in her throat, blocked by the lump there and she dropped her hands heavily into her lap. "I don't know what to do."

"I'd suggest finding a doctor for this and getting a complete exam as soon as you can. I've heard that Doctor Harvelle across the hall is quite good." The doctor leaned down, patting her hand. "Everything will be okay."

Somehow, she managed to nod, swiping at her eyes and sucking in a fortifying breath. "Of course. Thank you."

"I'll let you get dressed."

Sliding off the exam table, Danae waited until the door was shut before shrugging out of the paper gown and tugging her shirt over her head. The doctor was a good man, but he was very, very wrong this time. Nothing was going to be okay, not at all.

She stared at her body in the mirror, hand going to her belly. All of the optimism that she'd had before was gone, the confidence and the strength deserting her. For one treacherous instant, she wondered if some life-threatening disease might have been easier to come to terms with.

Shaking her head vigorously, she forced the thought out of her mind and jerked the exam room door open, her hands shaking.

The doctor had been right about one thing, at least, blood tests didn't lie.

But apparently, little plastic sticks did.

Pausing before she stepped out of the exam room, Danae met her own eyes in the mirror once more and mouthed the words to herself, her voice failing as her tears threatened to renew themselves.

I'm pregnant.

o()o


	14. Chapter 14

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Thanks to everyone out there in PCLand who has read and reviewed these last few chapters! NotG is getting more and more challenging and I hope I can continue to make this a worthwhile read.  
**Nifty Fact for the day: **In Ireland, there are trees that you can find that are covered in strips of cloth, these cloths are usually strips of clothing that belongs to someone who is sick and it's believed that as the rag rots away, so will the illness. Pagans have a similar notion with burying an apple. :)_

o(14)o

"We've just received word from the South Boston Police Department that Tarasov wasn't the only victim of this brutal crime."

Smecker pushed Nigel away and sat up, ignoring the other man's affronted cry, and, frowning at the television.

"This is why I don't let you watch the news in bed." Nigel huffed, reaching across him for a cigarette. "Fly me all the way down here, pump me full of promises and then ditch me for the news."

Foregoing his usual abuse, Smecker held up a silencing hand, cutting short the other man's complaints.

"Detectives have just discovered the bodies of Angelica Tarasov, Yuri's wife and their ten year old son, Petya also shot and showing signs of torture."

"Oh, God," Nigel breathed beside him and Smecker nodded in agreement.

A ten-year old boy and his mother.

Fuck.

"You don't think . . ." Nigel stopped himself, severing the words with a long pull from his cigarette, and Smecker knew the other man was unable to voice the terrible ending of that sentence. He only wished he were as unable to think it.

The Saints

"It can't be them. It's got to be, a what-do-you-call-it, copycat: someone pretending to be them."

More than anything, Smecker wanted to believe his lover, he didn't want to think that the men he had come to care so much about could possibly be capable of such brutality.

The problem was: he knew better. He had seen what they were capable of. He had watched, unnoticed as they had killed Giuseppi Yakavetta without blinking, without flinching, even as the Mafioso's blood had splattered their faces.

He had seen the steely determination and fiery intensity in the MacManuses eyes up close and personal. It had been a startling change from the joking, good natured, Irishmen he had first met in the SBPD interrogation room. He had seen the aftereffects of their God-given mission time and time again since that afternoon in the courtroom, but Yakavetta still haunted him.

It was that look in their eyes, hard and fanatical, that gnawed at his brain in the middle of the night and made him wonder just how far the brothers would take their mission. And how far he would be willing to follow them.

Then, he had seen what Connor had done last spring and his question had been answered with half a dozen brutal murders and the slaughter of a Colombian drug cartel.

Picking up the remote, Smecker aimed it at the television, but couldn't bring himself to change the channel. He stared as the brunette reporter recounted the grisly details of what had happened to Tarasov and his hapless family.

The media was having a field day with this newest development in the Saints of South Boston story, tossing around worlds like sadistic, vicious and heartless. The words scraped along the hollows of Smecker's bones like ragged fingernails, grating along the edge that separated what he wanted to think from the grim truth.

He shuddered when they showed the crime scene.

Beside him, Nigel sighed, sliding out from between the sheets. There was the telltale clink of ice against glass and he returned a moment later with two tumblers full of amber liquid. Offering him a glassful of scotch and keeping one for himself, Nigel set the bottle beside Smecker on the nightstand and returned to bed.

Smecker grunted his appreciation and drained the tumbler in one long swallow, grimacing as the alcohol burned its way down to his belly.

The silence stretched out before him, endless and full of unspoken words, the newscaster on the television saying more than enough. Smecker refilled his glass and finished it just as quickly.

The third refill went a little slower, and about halfway through, he broke the silence.

"Copycats don't know what this killer knows, it's too perfect to be some hack playing friggin' Batman with a gun and a handful of change."

Nigel pressed his lips together. "You really think it's them?"

Smecker didn't know how to answer.

o()o

"Murphy!"

Danae hurried to catch up to him, running across the parking lot of her apartment complex.

"Murphy, wait!"

He turned and, seeing her, offered her a crooked smile, dropping the bag he held and opening his arms. "Christ, luv, ye'd think I was goin' ta turn and run the other way."

Danae stood on her toes, accepting the much needed hug, breathing in the smell of smoke and wool and the subtle spicy cologne he favored.

"How are ye feeling?" he asked, pressing a kiss against the top of her head. "How was the doctor?"

In the circle of his arms, Danae fisted her hands against the fabric of his tee shirt, she wanted to pretend that nothing was going on, to tell him that everything was fine and go on like nothing was different. Maybe if she didn't admit it to him, to herself, then it wouldn't be true.

But that was bull, and she knew it. If nothing else, he deserved to know.

"I still wish ye would have let me come with ye," Murphy continued, "I almost dropped by the office just on principal."

"That's actually what I need to talk to you about," she said, forcing the words around the sudden blockage in her throat.

Releasing her, Murphy grasped her upper arms, ducking his head to meet her eyes, his face suddenly serious.

"What are ye talking about?"

"Murphy, I. . . You know . . . I just . . . I can't believe how chilly it is out here."

Her confession disintegrated before she managed to get the first word out. Danae had no idea what she was saying to him, something about dinner? How late it was? What was he doing out?

It didn't matter what she said, just so long as she didn't have to tell him, so long as he didn't know.

"Danae," Murphy severed her frantic blather, his hands tightening over her arms. "What the fuck is goin' on here?"

"The doctor did a bunch of tests last week, a few more this time around --"

Murphy's eyes narrowed. "Ye didn't tell me that."

"I didn't want to worry you," she wanted to cry, or throw up, or maybe both. "I got the results back today."

"And?"

Sucking in a deep breath, she closed her eyes. It was now or never. He deserved to know.

"I'm pregnant."

Of all the ways Danae imagined the news could have gone over, of all the scenarios she had tried to prepare for: happy acceptance, angry yelling, stunned silence, she never, in her wildest dreams, could have expected his reaction.

Murphy's face closed instantly, becoming cool and unreadable. He released her arms, still staring at her.

And then, without a word, he simply turned his back on her and walked away.

Danae stood, too stunned to even cry, and watched him stalk out of the apartment complex, slamming the gate behind him. A moment later she heard the brothers' car rumble to life and drive away.

The sound faded into silence and finally the first tears slipped down her cheeks, breaking open the dam. In the middle of the parking lot, Danae hit her knees, curling around the pain in her chest.

She was still there when Connor came home that evening.

o()o

Murphy had been staring into the bottom of his glass for what seemed like hours, the rolling in his gut not allowing him to actually drink out of it. There was a headache beginning at the base of his neck, making his eyeballs feel like they were in twin vise-grips. Absently, he rubbed at the blossoming pain.

The stool beside him scraped backwards and he was aware of his twin at his side before Connor even sat down.

Settling onto the barstool, Connor shot Murphy a sidelong glance. "Ran inta Danae on the way home from market today," he said, the concern in his eyes belying his casual tone. "She was pretty upset."

Murphy remained silent, running a hand through his hair before he resumed rubbing at his eyes.

"Gonna tell me why?"

"Why don't ye fuckin' ask her?" The words came out sharper than he intended and Murphy pressed his lips together, looking away from his twin.

Connor arched an eyebrow, "I tried, but she wouldn't tell me. You want ta fuckin' fill me in here?"

Grimacing, Murphy shook his head and swallowed against the tightness in his chest. "Not really."

"Are ye fightin'?"

"Christ, Connor, what part of 'not really' did ye fuckin' misunderstand?"

"I understand ye just fine," Connor produced a cigarette from the depths of his pocket and tossed a second one to Murphy. "But yer wan is at home, bawlin' so hard she's made herself sick and ye're here with an hour old Guinness sittin' in front of ye untouched."

"She's pregnant," the words came out boneless and weak. As weak as he felt.

Beside him, Connor stilled. "What? How?"

Despite the clutter of dark thoughts in his head, Murphy managed a genuine smile. "Well, ye see Conn, when a man and a woman care for each other . . ."

"Shut it, ye retard." Connor's hand flashed out, connecting with his shoulder in a rough shove. "Ye know what I meant."

Murphy nodded, sobering, "I don't know what happened."

"Ye didn't ask her?"

Murphy looked away, wondering if a bigger bollocks than himself ever put their arms through a coat. He doubted it.

"What the fuck did ye do, Murphy?"

"I just . . ." he sighed heavily, finally taking a sip of his beer. "I just fuckin' had ta get out o' there so I could think."

"Ye did what?"

"I'm not fuckin' proud of it!" Murphy protested, gesturing vehemently. "I didn't know what else ta do. Jesus Christ, Connor, I just picked up my fuckin' guns again and she comes and tells me I'm goin' ta be a fuckin' father?"

Connor sighed, his gaze fixed on Murphy's beer, silent as the words hung in the air, heavy and laced with implication.

"Fuck," Murphy whispered as the full meaning of his words crashed over him like a tidal wave, drowning him in their significance. "I'm goin' ta be a da."

Saying the words aloud lightened the weight he had felt pressing down on his shoulders since that afternoon and dropped it directly onto his chest. He was playing a dangerous fucking game here, with all their lives.

Unbidden, images of Danae after they had rescued her from the Street Priests wormed their way into his mind. She had been beaten and bloodied; and as long as he lived, he never ever wanted to put her in that situation again.

But as long as he was close to her it seemed inevitable. And now his unborn child would be in danger too.

There was no fucking way.

"I can't get her . . . them . . . involved in this," he said softly. "Conn, I can't go back to that apartment, not if I'm going ta be after that copycat fucker. I can't risk it."

"Then don't. We'll wait until later and do it together."

Murphy shook his head. "If I wait, more people will die. I need you ta stay with Danae, ta keep her safe until all this is over."

"Ye have ta tell her, Murphy, the girl's fuckin' devastated."

"When it's all over, I will, until then, this is the way it's got ta be. She can't know."

"Ye're making a huge fuckin' mistake and you fuckin' know it."

Murphy looked away. He knew there was a good chance that she would never forgive him for this, that he was blowing the second chance he had been given.

But he would rather have her angry and hurt than dead.

"Ye'll take care of her for me, wont' ye Conn?"

"For Christ's sake Murphy, ye have ta at least see the girl now and again."

"Connor, please."

Connor sighed, turning his attention to his own untouched beer. "Ye know I will."

o()o


	15. Chapter 15

o()o

_**Author's Note: **It's been forever, I know. And I'm so sorry. Thanks to everyone who stopped by to offer encouagement. I really do have the best readers on the face of the planet. :)  
**Nifty Fact for the Day:**__It probably doesn't mean much to you guys, but this last weekend marked the two year anniversary since this entire shindig started and the very first chapter of Waiting Game was published._

o(15)o

His shirts were the hardest part.

Scattered around the room, hiding in corners and under her bed, most of them held the unique odor of smoke, sweat, and the subtle spice of his cologne. It had once been a pleasant smell, familiar and comforting. It had once reminded her of his warm hands and the smile that he saved only for her.

Now, it had become her greatest enemy.

Danae stared down at the gray fabric fisted in her hands, trying to still the nauseating cadence of her heart against her ribs. He had left without so much as a second glance or whisper of goodbye. He had left her drowning in the silence of her apartment, unable to focus on anything other than the gaping wound where her heart should have been, where _he _should have been. Still, despite everything, a tiny part of her had clung to the hope that he would realize his mistake and come home. That he would sweep her into his arms, kiss her and make everything all right.

Then, Connor had appeared at her front door this morning with a large black bag. requesting his twin's belongings, and that glimmer of hope had turned dark and cold.

_Damn, you, Murphy MacManus,_ she thought, pinching the bridge of her nose, trying to quell the sting of tears there.

"Danae?" The voice was all-too familar, sending another bolt of unwelcome longing through her.

She looked up, unsurprised to see Connor leaning against the door frame, his face rueful. "Can I do anything ta help?" he asked quietly.

Danae stiffened at the question. She wanted to tell him that he could go to hell, and to be sure to save his brother a spot when he got there. She wanted to throw him out of her home, simply for being related to the person who had hurt her so much. But instead, she focused on the shirt in her hands, fastidiously folding it and adding to the others in the duffel at her feet.

"No." The word came out watery and miserable. She cleared her throat and tried again. "I've got it."

Connor pushed off the doorframe, and stepped into the room. Reaching for a pair of jeans, he wadded them into a tight ball, eyes on the floor. "Listen Danae, I know that this is hard for ye, but . . ."

He never got the chance to finish.

Rounding on him, Danae brandished a pair of Murphy's socks like a weapon. "No, Connor," she gritted out, "You _don't_ know. You aren't pregnant and alone, so don't you _dare_ tell me that you have any idea about how I feel."

Connor took a half-step away from her, hurt flashing across his features and Danae's anger deflated on itself.

"I'm sorry," she said through a sigh, tossing the socks into the bag with more force than necessary and reaching for another pair on the floor. "I'm a jerk."

A strong hand closed around her arm. "Ye've nothing to be sorry for." Connor said. "And ye're not a jerk. But ye're not alone either, Danae; not as long as I'm around."

"And how long . . . " The thought of being abandoned by another person overwhelmed her, stealing her voice. Shutting her eyes tightly she forced the words out. "And how long will that be?"

Connor sucked in a quiet breath and pulled her to him, one arm around her waist, the other resting on top of her head. "As long as ye like, and even after that. I'm not goin' anywhere."

Face buried into Connor's shoulder, there was no stopping the torrent of emotion that flooded though her. She cried until her stomach hurt and her nose was too clogged to breathe through. Clinging to Connor, she was only vaguely aware that he was muttering soothing gibberish to her and it made her cry all the harder. It should have been Murphy there with her now, not Connor. None of this should have been happening. It wasn't right.

"I just don't understand," she hiccoughed, once the storm began to subside. "I thought we were okay. I thought he was happy."

There was a long pause filled with unspoken words and then Connor sighed, smoothing a hand over her hair. "I wish I knew what ta say ta you, I really do."

Pulling away from him, Danae swallowed hard blew out an unsteady breath, unable to meet his eyes. "I should really finish packing this," she murmured.

After a moment, Connor let her go, nodding. "I'll lend ye a hand."

Danae shook her head, snuffling quietly, wishing for a kleenex and settling for her sleeve. "I need to say goodbye once and for all."

Frowning at her, Connor started to reply just as the front door creaked open and a delighted squeal echoed through the house, followed by Maire's quieter giggle. A small blonde bundle of energy sped into the room.

"Kree? Kree!"

Connor gave Danae one last apologetic glance before looking at the little girl. "Galya!" he responded enthusiastically, bending to tickle the little girl as she raced around the room.

A moment later Maire appeared around the corner cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling. She offered both Danae and Connor a tentative smile, expression turning sympathetic as she saw Danae's face, red and tearstained.

"We love Fruit-Loops," she reported, gray eyes going to follow Sasha round the room. "And we are _definitely_ anti-raisin."

Connor chuckled, his gaze lingering on the fair-haired woman; he looked at ease, almost happy, the doleful, longing look absent from his features for the first time in recent memory. Reaching out, he hooked his little finger around Maire's, squeezing gently. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes. Maire looked at him sharply, eyes wide, and then smiled.

Suddenly, Danae felt like an intruder in her own home. Connor was together again with Maire, and little Sasha made three. There was no room for her in their picturesque family scene. There was nowhere that she belonged anymore.

"Sok!" Grabbing a questionably clean-looking sock from where it was wadded on the floor, Sasha offered it to Maire, wrinkling her nose. "Pyoo!"

"Good job, kiddo," Maire said, accepting the sock gingerly and holding it between two fingers. Her expression was a perfect mirror of her daughter's. "Now can you find one just like it?"

"Kay!"

Meeting Danae's eyes, Maire tilted her head to one side. "So," she said, "Any weird cravings yet?"

The question provoked a surprised laugh from Danae. "Thank God, no."

Expression changing, becoming thoughtful, Maire pressed her lips together. "I remember," she said slowly, "that when I was pregnant with Sasha, all I ever wanted was a Big Mac with extra pickles and a mint-chip ice cream cone. I'd just sit at home and bawl because I wanted them so badly but I couldn't drive because I couldn't turn the steering wheel around my big belly."

Connor chuckled quietly, twining a second finger around Maire's pinkie and Danae shook out another one of Murphy's shirts. Carefully folding the top, she looked hard at Maire from the corner of her eye.

Pregnant and forsaken, she had been exactly where Danae was now. She had raised two children alone and she had done a damn good job of it. Danae squared her shoulders, there were millions of single mothers out there, all of them doing a perfectly fine job without the benefit of a partner. If they could do it, so could she.

So _would_ she.

"Pyoo!" Across the room, Sasha brandished another sock, waving it wildly over her head. "Pyoo-EE!"

"Ye got that right," Connor laughed, bending to scoop the little girl into his arms and dodging the sock as Sasha tried to stuff it up his nose. "Come on, galya, let's go and wait for Tom and Val."

He paused in front of Maire, and Sasha leaned in to give her mother a kiss that was mostly spit.

Maire watched them leave, "We had such a good time today," she murmured, absently folding the dirty socks together and setting them aside. "I just hate to let her go."

Danae offered the other woman a small, grateful, smile, feeling a blessed moment of hormone-free clarity. She was strong and competent and everything was going to be all right. She was done crying over the things that she couldn't change.

Actually, she admitted to herself, that was bound to prove untrue. But she wasn't crying now and that had to count for something.

Didn't it?

o()o

Murphy shut the door behind him and sank down onto the narrow bed, glancing around the depressingly average motel room.

The carpet was mottled and stained and there was a large crack running down the far wall, splitting the yellowing wallpaper in two. Murphy stared at the crack, rubbing at the ache that was spreading behind his eyes.

Reaching into his pocket and retrieving a smoke and his lighter, he shot the dingy 'no smoking' sign a disparaging glance, almost ignored it and then tucked the cigarette behind his ear. He knew she couldn't see it, but it was a small gesture for Danae. A tiny offering to prove that he was a decent man, worthy of her love.

Guilty, cold and greasy, twisted his gut. He shouldn't be in this shitehole room, alone, cleaning his weapons during the day and lurking just out of sight of the police at night. He should be at home, with his brother, with his woman and with his unborn child.

Where he belonged.

Murphy had been skulking in the shadows for days, haunting brutal, bloody, crime scene after brutal, bloody, crime scene. Each one he visted left him with more questions and fewer answers. Whoever these fraudulent Saints were, they knew what the fuck they were doing.

"Murph," Connor's muffled voice was accompanied by a knock at the door. "Let me in."

Getting to his feet, Murphy unbolted the lock and held the door open. "About fuckin' time," he muttered as Connor walked past him, feeling some of the weight lift from his shoulders. With his brother there, the room seemed less desolate and the mission a little less hopeless.

Connor ignored him, tossing the bag that had been slung over his shoulder onto the motel bed and settling into the chair that graced the room. Stained and battered, its seat was patched with a crusting strip of duct tape and decades of dirt. "Any news?"

Murphy shook his head jaw tightening. "Bastards are like ghosts. Another fuckin' Mafioso turned up tortured and murdered this morning. The police don't have any leads."

"Of course they fuckin' do," tilting his head toward that morning's issure of the Boston Globe where it sat on the floor, Connor sighed. "_Fallen Saints" _he said grimly, quoting the headline emblazoned across the front page. "They're blaming every last one o' those fuckin' killings on us."

Raking a hand through his hair, nervous energy building in his chest, Murphy began to pace. The cigarette behind his ear appeared between his fingers as if by magic and he rolled it across his fingertips as he moved. "We have ta to put and end to this shit and quick."

"I've been mulling it over," Connor said, "and I think we should ring Smecker, see if we can pick his brain about these guys."

The agent's name sent a chill through Murphy and he turned away from his twin. "No."

Connor frowned at him. "It makes sense, Murph. It's the fuckin' mafia turning up dead, the FBI is bound to bring him in on the case. Maybe he'll know something that we don't."

"I said no, Connor."

"What the fuck, man? Why not?"

Murphy stilled, feeling the weight of the truth bearing down him. The cigarette found its way to his mouth, unlit, and he shoved the lighter back into his pocket. Danae would've respected the sign. "Because he knows it was you that killed all those men last year."

The irritation on Connor's face dissolved into dread. "What? How?"

"Dolly told me that he ran the ballistics from the others against the Street Priests that were turning up dead."

"Jesus fuckin' Christ."

Beginning to pace again, Murphy nodded. "That's why I need ta find this bastard and put an end to it, before we have the police after us more than they already are."

"Why didn't ye fuckin' tell me this before?"

"T'wasn't exactly something ta bring up at the dinner table, Connor," The cigarette was back between his fingers, still unlit and Murphy shot the no-smoking sign another glance. "And as far as I can tell, Smecker took care of it."

"Fuck." Connor said, closing his eyes and rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Pausing by the bed, Murphy unzipped his duffel bag, the corner of his mouth quirking humorlessly as he saw all of his clothes neatly folded inside. "Aye," he said, tucking the cigarette back behind his ear.

"This is all the more reason why I should be with ye now, making things right."

Murphy shook his head. "We've talked about this."

"This is more important than all o' that, Murph and ye know it." The words were spoken with true MacManus conviction, but Connor's expression belied his confident tone.

"Connor, can ye even pick up a fuckin' gun?"

Face hardening, Connor bent down and wrenched open Murphy's weapon bag, withdrawing a baretta. He paled as he gripped the weapon, the barrel pointed at the floor.

Murphy didn't look up from his belongings, careful to keep his voice calm. "Now aim it at me," he said around the filtered end of the cigarette.

"Have ye lost yer fuckin' mind?"

"T'isn't loaded." The lighter was back in his hands and Murphy focused on it, rubbing his thumb across the burnised metal.

"For Christ's fuckin' sake, Murphy."

"Lord's fuckin' name," he replied automatically. "Quit stalling and point the gun at me."

From the corner of his eye, he saw Connor steel himself and lift the weapon. His twin's face had gone ashen and his hands had begun to tremble. He managed to raise the barrel a few scant inches before he was shaking so hard that the weapon slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor.

"Fuck," the word was barely a breath and Connor scrubbed a hand over his face. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Coming to stand next to his twin, Murphy placed a hand on the back of Connor's neck, squeezing briefly before bending to pick up the fallen gun.

"I need ye there with her," he said, tossing the gun back into the bag and nudging it closed with his toe. "I need ye to look after her until I come home."

Connor nodded, swiping at his now red-rimmed eyes, looking everywhere but at Murphy.

Murphy brought his thumb to his mouth, worrying then nail between his teeth. "How is she?"

Still looking at the stained carpeting, his gaze trained on where the gun had laid just moments ago, Connor sighed. "How do ye think she is, Murph? She's fuckin' miserable."

The words sent a sharp spike of remorse through Murphy and he found himself staring at the same faded spot of carpeting as his twin. "Aye, well, I guess that makes two of us."

"I think packing all yer shit was hard on her."

The lighter snapped closed and Murphy had a lungful of smoke before he realized what he had done. He jerked the cigarette from his mouth, glared at it, and then snuffed it out on the already scarred bedpost. "I can't risk getting her hurt," he said. "Not again."

Connor nodded at last, jamming his hands into his pockets. "I know, man," he muttered. "And she's holding it together. She's a strong girl."

"She is at that," Murphy agreed, looking away, leaving the rest unspoken.

_She deserves better._

"I should get back to them before it gets too late." Connor said, and Murphy forced himself to nod, fighting against the loneliness that he could already feel seeping back into the room. And back into him.

Another night spent in silence with only his thoughts to keep him company, it was the closest thing to hell as he could imagine."Aye," he said at last.

Neither brother moved, Connor standing with his hands still buried in his pockets and Murphy with the cigarette burning to the filter between his fingers.

"Maybe I'll stay here a bit longer." Connor amended at last.

Murphy blew out a breath, not bothering to mask his relief and the corners of this mouth turned up. "Maybe I'll order us a pizza then."

o()o


	16. Chapter 16

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Wow, I'm blown away by the sudden surge of hits and reviews, thanks to everyone who took the time to read and leave feedback. Thanks also to archerlove for the beta and to Saoirse Driscol for the jumpstart to get back to writing again. :)  
**Nifty Fact of the Day: **When someone says 'Top o' the mornin' to ya." the correct reponse is 'and the rest of the day to yourself.'_

o(16)o

The walk to Danae's seemed to be taking longer than usual.

Head down, hands jammed in his pockets, Connor wove his way through the back allies and side streets that would eventually lead him to his surrogate home.

The night was moonless and an occasional snowflake wafted down from the heavens to catch and melt on the wool of his coat.

Despite the near bottle of whisky coursing through his blood, his gait was mostly steady, thrown off only by the marked emptiness at his right side. He felt the lack of Murphy's presence tonight as keenly as if a portion of his own self were missing.

He hadn't wanted to leave, but there was no way that he could stay.

He could still feel the greasy-cool metal of his brother's gun against his palm, still smell the odor of gun oil and old sulfur and, if he closed his eyes, he could still see Murphy's reflection in the barrel, watching him with an expression of perfect trust.

It was the same carefully calculated expression Connor had seen reflected in the exact same barrel as he had pressed it against his twin's forehead in a destroyed bathroom almost a year ago.

_He hadn't eaten in days, hadn't slept for almost twice as long, praying that this was nothing more than a nightmare that he would wake from, that he would open his eyes to the sunlight streaming into the room and the woman that he loved in his arms._

_But he hadn't woken up, and in the space of a moment the nightmare had become reality and reality had become hell. Time had faded away into a montage of desperate pleas and bloody splatters, all made meaningless by the tsunami of wrath and carnage he had been drowning in._

_Even now, he wasn't sure exactly what day it was._

_Whispered words, almost as familiar as the voice that had whispered them, had plunged through the deluge of chaos and he had resurfaced with his brother's cries in his ears and a gun to his head. The nightmare was finally over, and at the same time, it was just beginning._

_What have I done?_

The shudder that accompanied the memory was enough to make his step falter.

He didn't want to think about it.

He didn't want to think about his twin, alone, in that shite motel room or the split second look of disappointment on Murphy's face as he'd picked up the weapon from where it had fallen from Connor's nerveless fingers.

He didn't want to think about the people that were turning up dead and the weight of the blame that was piling upon the shoulders of the Saints of South Boston.

The _Saint _of South Boston he corrected bitterly, avoiding a watery pool of light cast by an overhead streetlamp. And that Saint's useless fucking brother.

Headlights flooded over him and Connor melted into the shadows, frowning as the car sped past. The only reason to drive like that on an empty street was because someone was hurt, or because someone was going to get hurt.

The retreating car backfired, emitting a sharp crack that echoed off of the brick buildings and Connor jerked, his heart stuttering.

"Fuck," he ground out through clenched teeth, aware that his hands were now clammy and shaking. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

He had been a warrior of God, hand selected to destroy evil, allowing all that was good to flourish. The smell of gunpowder and blood had been like holy incense and the gun had been as comforting as a rosary in his hands. His mission had been pure and righteous.

He never would have guessed that it would eventually turn him into his own worst enemy

The blinding rage that had driven him last spring was little more than ash now, but he lived with the relentless trepidation that somewhere inside was an ember, banked and waiting for the right conditions to burst again into flame.

More snowflakes began to flutter around him, spinning and swirling, marking the change of another season. Connor lowered his head further and picked up his pace, unsure if he were trying to escape the falling snow or his own freewheeling thoughts.

Danae's apartment was quiet and dark. He let himself in, making a note to have a talk with both women about keeping the doors locked. Taking off his shoes, he padded through the rooms making sure everything was as it should be.

He found Danae on the couch, asleep. Her breathing was muffled, her eyelids red and swollen. He ruffled her hair, feeling the dampness of recent tears, most likely shed over his twin; probably not for the first time, and certainly not for the last.

She stirred under his hand and the hope in her voice broke his heart. "Murphy?"

"No, luv, t'isn't."

"Connor." She sighed drawing her knees up to her chest. "Oh. You're home late."

"A bit." he agreed. "Go back ta sleep now, I'll lock up."

"Were you with him?"

Connor paused, the truth warring with a myriad of merciful lies in his mind before at last persevering. "I was, aye."

"Is he okay?"

"He's alive."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Her brow furrowed and her hands moved to her belly, covering it protectively. "Connor?"

Connor found himself staring at her hands, his mind going to the tiny niece or nephew that was forming there for the first time.

Sasha would finally have a playmate.

The thought sent a jolt through him. He couldn't get her involved in all this, not after what had happened the last time. It was his job to look after her—look after them both—until Murphy could.

"Ye're just goin' ta have to trust me on this one, Danae, please."

Danae's eyes opened fully and the intensity of the look took him by surprise. Murphy had often talked about her ability to 'see clean through to his fuckin' soul', but to actually be on the receiving end of such a look was unnerving. "Is this about what's been on the news? People are blaming you for those killings."

Too smart for her own fucking good, she was. "I know they are. But we've both been here and ye know that. We haven't got anything ta do with those people dyin'." Not a lie, exactly.

Her face crumpled and Connor realized that he had taken away her only chance to believe that she hadn't been abandoned without a reason. Her pain was palpable, and he wished that he could take it away.

Instead, he patted her shoulder, trying to stave off the flow of tears. "Come on now, girl. Don't do that. Just try ta get some rest, all right?"

"I'm sorry." Danae covered her face with her hand, muffling a sob even as she nodded to him. "You go on, I'll be fine."

Connor gave her a sympathetic look and perched beside her on the couch. "I know ye will, luv. I know."

Dutifully, he rubbed circles over her back, counting the breaths until she managed to cry herself back to sleep and he could get up.

o()o

He discovered Maire in the guest bedroom, also asleep, surrounded by the contents of the boxes they had salvaged from her apartment.

It was the same place she had been for the past several days, carefully sorting through the precious few details of her life. Some of the items sparked vague memories, but most were still lost to her.

She was wearing a heavy knit sweater, the chunky stitches making her seem even smaller than she normally appeared and as fragile as spun glass. He'd been trying to prepare her the most fattening foods he knew, even going so far as to call his Ma for some of her patented 'arse widening' recipes. Maire had eaten them with enthusiasm, but still remained as disturbingly thin as she had been in the hospital.

He'd just have to keep trying.

Kneeling in front of her, he touched her arm gently. "Maire."

Maire awoke with a strangled cry, eyes wide and startled. "Don't!" she gasped scrabbling away from him. Pressed up against the wall she held up a warding hand, fingers splayed. "Don't!"

"Easy," Connor soothed, holding up his own hands. "T'is only me, it's only Connor."

"Connor." She pitched forward, burying her face in her hands and exhaling heavily. "_Oh_."

"Ye're all right, darlin'. Ye're safe."

Reaching out, he ran a hand over her upper arm and was surprised when she scooted closer to him, burying her face in his shoulder.

For the second time that night he found himself rubbing circles across another's back. "It's okay now. There's nothing ta be afraid of."

Maire clung to him, and he could feel her hands clutching at the fabric of his shirt.

"Hush now, everything's all right. Ye're here with me and ye're safe."

Her hands continued to clench and release across his back and Connor found himself rocking them both slightly to the same cadence. Clench and release. To and fro. Over and over again.

Finally, he felt the fine tremors that were running through her body slow and cease. "All right now?" he asked, still rocking.

She blew out a breath across his neck, making gooseflesh rise in its wake. "I think so."

"Want ta talk about it?"

Her hands fisted tightly in the fabric of his t-shirt again. "No."

"Fair enough. Want a cup o' coffee?"

Maire looked up at him and Connor was startled at what he saw in her eyes. It was something he hadn't seen there before, something that wanted and couldn't be controlled. Suddenly, the gentle back and forth of their bodies seemed much less soothing and much more like an entirely different sort of rhythm.

"No." she whispered.

His mouth went dry, and he was now very aware of the warmth of her thigh pressed between his legs. "Do ye want anything at all?" he whispered.

Maire bit her lip in wordless invitation and Connor fought hard against the jolt of desire that arced through his bloodstream. He wanted to kiss every inch of her skin and to lose himself inside of her warmth; he wanted to patch over the dark places in him and be whole again.

But what gave him the right?

Nothing did. And he couldn't . . . ask that . . . of her. Not now, not after what he had done.

"It's snowing out," he said at last. "Want ta watch it with me?"

She nodded slowly, not quite masking the hurt his rejection had caused, and he pulled her to her feet, keeping their fingers intertwined as they made their way through the darkened apartment. As close to her as he'd allow himself to get.

Pausing to grab a warm blanket from the couch he wrapped it around her shoulders and opened the patio door. A gust of frigid wind made them both shiver as they stepped outside.

"You always seem to be taking care of me," she murmured pulling the blanket closer around herself and turning her face toward the sky.

Fat, fluffy snowflakes clung to her hair and eyelashes, glittering under the yellow streetlight. He longed to touch them, feeling the icy wetness mingle with the silk of her hair. "T'isn't any big deal."

"Was it like this? Before?"

Connor forced himself to reach for a cigarette, keeping the motion nonchalant even though it felt like something had just struck him in the chest.

"I wasn't the man ye deserved ta have," he managed, after taking in a fortifying lungful of smoke.

"I find that very hard to believe." Reaching into the oversized pocket of her sweater, she pulled out a tattered paperback and held it up. "I've never read this book, never even heard of it before. But when I opened it today, I recognized the story right from the very first page."

Connor sucked in a breath, placing the book as one of the ones he had read to her during her stay in the hospital. "Ye remember?" he asked with equal measures of despair and hope.

She didn't move, gaze still fixed on the book in her hands. "I found a couple more under the bed just like this one and I know those stories too, I can hear them being read in my mind."

Connor stood frozen, shocked into silence by this new discovery. The entire time, on some level, _she had known._

"It's your voice I remember, isn't it, reading to me?"

Mutely, he managed to bob his head. How many of his prayers and confessions had been heard and were now locked away in her psyche, waiting to be evoked by some minute trigger? He took another pull from the cigarette, hoping she didn't see the way it shook between his fingers.

"How many books did you go through?"

"I don't—" his tone lurched a little, and he adjusted it, "I stopped counting after the first fifteen or so."

Her eyebrows rose and Connor shrugged reflexively, watching the snow accumulate around his feet. "I couldn't just leave ye in that fuckin' place alone."

Tucking the book back into her pocket, she stretched up on her toes and kissed the corner of his mouth, her lips moving against his and her hands warm through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. "Thank you."

o()o


	17. Chapter 17

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Holy Crapola! This monstrosity might get finished yet!  
**Nifty Fact for the Day: **Mix one part water and three parts corn syrup, add red food coloring and thicken with a tiny bit of chocolate syrup and you've got yourself an ideal recipe for fake blood . . . Just like on TV. :)  
**BTW:** Hair loss is an honest to goodness side effect of Nicotine gum._

o(17)o

The CCU held a very special place in her heart.

Normal hospital rooms were a rush of colored chaos. There were nurses wearing cheerily patterned scrubs, visitors with rainbow hued bouquets and shiny Mylar balloons and bustling doctors with charts in hand. They all turned the drab, water-colored hallways into a parade of multihued best wishes and hope of a speedy recovery.

The residents of her ward lacked such kaleidoscopic intention.

Affectionately dubbed 'The Garden', the Continuing Care Unit rooms were dimly lit, usually devoid of visitors, and filled with the white-noise rush and click of medical equipment. It was home to those who couldn't be counted amongst the ranks of the living, but who weren't quite ready for death's embrace, an antechamber for lingering souls.

There wasn't a lot of hope for recovery in a place like that.

Stethoscope around her shoulders, Molly popped one last kernel of popcorn into her mouth, crunching contentedly, and then got up to start her round.

Each day consisted of the same routine. There were gentle stretches to keep muscles in shape, brightly colored cards and scented swatches of cloth to check responsiveness, and a dozen other things to ensure that if one of her patients began to show signs of awakening, their body would be ready.

Room one was Stephanie, a teenager who had been in a car accident the night of her prom almost two years ago.

After her, came Edward, who had tried to kill himself one night, trading most the oxygen in his system for car exhaust and who now thrashed his head from side to side, eyes rolling restlessly from under closed lids.

Room three was Richard, an ancient looking man who'd had a stroke one night and quietly slipped away.

Molly paused outside of the fourth room, stretching out the ache in her back and sighing. The space in front of her was empty now, disinfected, and waiting for the next lost soul who needed a place to reside. But not too long ago it had been the sight of a miracle.

Mrs. Maire Kensett had beaten the odds, waking up as perfectly as any fairy tale princess roused by the kiss of a handsome prince. Only instead of said prince, a disheveled Irishman had been the one awaiting her return to the waking world.

Torn jeans, tattooed skin, and a battered paperback always in hand, sometimes he would only stay for the length of a chapter or two; but on a few memorable occasions he had stayed for the entire day, his words giving the story life and breath from beginning to end.

Later on, his dark-haired counterpart had joined him, just as unkempt and just as rough-edged as Connor was. Together they provided a steady stream of jokes, flowers, doughnuts and encouragement. The sound of their laughter, later mingling with Maire's own, had lit the CCU as brightly as any ray of sunlight.

By the time Mrs. Kensett had been deemed well enough to leave the Garden, Molly was convinced that all princesses should be lucky enough to be able to trade their royal suitors in for chain-smoking Irishmen.

Especially ones that looked like them, she thought with a smile, pushing off the doorframe and continuing on her way.

Her last patient was a man with a gentle, grandfatherly face, his hair graying at the temples and his hands folded neatly over his middle.

On the bedside table, a wooden chess board sat, untouched, the only evidence of Mr. Mendoza's sole visitor. A kid, no more than seventeen, had come in one morning shortly after Mr. Mendoza had arrived, meticulously set up the board, and then left.

He had never returned.

An ever-growing layer of dust now coated the lacquered wooden pieces, marking the time that Mr. Mendoza had spent amongst the ranks of the breathing dead as accurately as any hourglass.

"Good morning," she said, turning over the Arturo's wrist and checking his pulse. She spent a moment, as she did every day, guessing at the meaning behind the carefully inked words embedded in her patient's skin. _Redima con Sangre._ "I see you haven't made your move yet. Maybe tomorrow?"

Mr. Mendoza remained silent, lost in a much deeper place than her voice could reach.

"Your pulse is good, and it looks like your blood pressure is steady. All we need now is . . ."

A flicker of motion caught her eye and a figure unmolded itself from the shadows outside of the room. Molly jumped at the unexpected presence with an undignified yelp. "Can I help you?"

The man was skeletally thin, a cracked leather coat hanging off of his rangy shoulders. His dark pants were smeared with rust-colored stains and patched with what looked like electrical tape. He didn't return her smile. "Maire Kensett."

"I'm sorry," Molly said. "She isn't a patient here."

Stepping into the room, the stranger plucked Mr. Mendoza's chart from its holder on the doorway. The movement reminded Molly of the snake she had seen on TV last night. Right before it had devoured a rabbit whole.

As he flipped through the file, the corners of his mouth twisted upward.

"Hey!" Molly had seen more than a fair share of freaks, creeps, and nutjobs throughout her career, and this guy was really starting to piss her off. "That information is private."

The man looked up from the file. Despite being obscured by dark wraparound sunglasses, his gaze seemed to cut right though her.

"She was," he said, drawing out the last word into a hiss. Then he let go of the chart, sending it clattering to the floor.

"Well, she isn't now," Molly shot back, bending to grab the chart. She pushed past the stranger, and out of the room, heading for the safety of the CCU desk. "And I'd be happy to show you back to the exit if you can't find your own way."

The man followed her, leather coat billowing around his knees like some living creature, boots squeaking against the tiled floor. "I wanted to give her my best . . . wishes," he said, pausing as she went behind the counter. "I'm sure she was very lonely here with no one to visit her."

Involuntarily, Molly's eyes dropped to the visitor sign-in sheets. There, two separate signatures, one slanted and the other scribbled, declared just how wrong this weirdo was. She had been meaning to shred them since Mrs. Kensett had been discharged, but with all the paperwork left to do, she simply hadn't gotten around it.

The man leaned over the desk, following her gaze. Up close, she could see the edges of crow's feet peeking from the edges of his sunglasses, there was blood crusted in each of the creases.

Recoiling, she tried to turn the sheets over, concealing the names written there, but the man was faster. His hand shot out, splaying over hers and pinning it against the counter."Don't."

The stranger's expression changed subtly as he continued to examine the visitor's log and his scarred fingers clamped down, grinding her knuckles together under the skin. "You've been keeping secrets, Strawberry."

Biting down hard on a yelp, she yanked her hand free, taking the sign-in sheets with her. "You need to leave," she said, summoning her best I'm-a-nurse-so-don't-you-dare-screw-with-me-voice. "Now. Or I'm calling security." It was a paper-thin lie, they couldn't afford to keep night security on this wing, but it had the desired effect nonetheless.

Lips skinned back in a parody of a smile, the man held up his hands and took a single step away from the desk.

Molly pressed her lips together and pointed toward the hallway that would lead him out of the CCU. Her injured hand was throbbing and it was taking all of her willpower to fight back the tears.

Hidden gaze never leaving her, blade-thin smile never wavering, he backed out of the room.

"See you later, Strawberry."

o()o

Dolly wished there was a window to look out of. Somehow, gazing moodily at a hospital vending machine full of potato chips and banana zingers just didn't have the same feel.

In his opinion, early morning crime scenes were second only to root canals done by pissed-off gorillas.

There was too much hustle and bustle and the blood seemed too red and too vibrant, making the grisly landscape seem more like some poorly constructed television set than the site of a double homicide.

This one was no different than the rest.

Ducking under the bright yellow tape, Dolly took a swig of lukewarm coffee and surveyed the scene around him.

Both jumpsuited CSIs and the SBPD's boys in blue milled around the room taking pictures and placing numbered markers everywhere. Piped music played across the intercom, one of the newer pop hits, and Dolly scowled seeing one of rookies bobbing his head to it as he collected evidence.

Blood pooled under the hospital bed and soaked into the pale blankets and pillows, looking for all the world like the syrup they used to fake it on TV.

The only thing that separated this place from a one of those cable network shows was the _smell. _

There was no faking that.

Despite being mostly eclipsed with blood, the victim's face was peaceful and his hands were folded neatly over his a middle. Two immaculately shined pennies rested over his closed eyelids, framing the red-ringed bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.

"Jesus."

Across from the bed, a chess set stood, its lacquered pieces spotless and carefully arranged to form a smiley face over the expanse of the board.

Dolly had seen a shit-ton of fucked up things in his career, more than he cared to think about, but something about that smiley face grated along the inside of his bones, in the space where his instincts as a cop dwelled.

There was a flurry of motion behind him, the distinct sound of SBPD uniforms scurrying for their life and Dolly turned, reaching into his pocket for another piece of nicotine gum, already knowing who he would see.

Smecker.

Even freshly shaven, in an impeccably pressed suit, with some ridiculous latte in hand, the agent still somehow managed to look like hell.

"Agent," he said, extending his hand.

Smecker took the offered hand. "Still chewing that gum, Dolly? You know that shit will make you go bald, don't you?"

Dolly shrugged, resisting the urge to run a hand through his hair. It wasn't thinning, he told himself firmly. "Yeah, well it's better than lung cancer."

The look the agent gave him spoke as loudly as any verbal retort.

Dolly was the first to look away, clearing his throat. "Male, Hispanic, in his late sixties." he said. "Died of a gunshot wound to the head. Pennies in both eyes. We'll know more once the M.E. gets a hold of him."

Smecker nodded, his face grim, hands going to his pocket and fiddling with the headphones there. "I know this man," he said. "It's Arturo Mendoza."

Dolly looked closer at the victim, now recognizing the face through the streaks and smears of blood, and felt his stomach clench. Arturo Mendoza, the last known living member of the Street Priests.

Well, not so much now.

One CSI glanced up from the blood she was swabbing on the floor. "The other one is down the hall, Sir." she said. "A nurse."

"What the hell is going on here, detective?" Smecker murmured slipping the headphones into his ears with gloved hands.

"Beats the shit out of me," he said, but the agent was already moving away, swaying slightly as he moved through the crime scene.

Dolly turned his attention to the dead gang leader, staring at the pennies covering the man's eyes. Once in the beginning, it seemed like a lifetime ago now, Smecker had addressed the SBPD regarding a self-defense case. He had told a room full of cops that the MacManus brothers weren't extraordinary men, just regular men who had been put into an extraordinary situation.

Now, almost three years and scores of corpses later, Dolly wondered if the agent realized how very wrong he had been.

The Saints had proven what they were capable of, cutting through all the red tape and making South Boston a better place with a few well placed bullets and a handful of pennies. They treaded into areas the long arm of the law couldn't reach and Dolly had been glad to see them do it.

Then, last year, he had seen firsthand the merciless, unforgiving, vengeance they were capable of. It was a side of them that still kept him up at night listening to Murphy's voice over and over in his head, replaying the conversation they had right after the first of those brutal killings had occurred.

_"You're going to go find the rest of these guys aren't you?"_ Dolly had asked, still looking at the ruined evidence that surrounded him. No matter how compelling the case was, there was no way it could ever go to trial with the now. Mrs. Maire Kensett would never get her day of justice, because some fucktard crackheads didn't have enough common sense to _not_ walk through a giant pool of blood.

Murphy's face had been impassive. _"Will it be easier for ye ta look the other way if I tell you 'no'?"_

_"No." _

The next few days had been a nightmare as the Saints of South Boston had given Mrs. Maire Kensett the retribution that the US Judicial system, The South Boston Police Department, and Dolly himself had failed to provide.

Despite that, or maybe because if it, Dolly still chose to believe that the MacManus brothers were one of the good guys. Even when he had to lie to himself to make it stick.

o()o

The front desk was a slaughterhouse.

Crimson marred every surface, splashed across neutrally colored walls, soaking into carpet and oozing down tranquil watercolor pictures. The nurse was sprawled in a thickening puddle of her own blood, surrounded by white papers. Purple scrub top now mostly red, her green eyes stared sightlessly up at him.

"What the hell is this?"

"Female, early thirties," One of the uniforms said, half-jogging to him. "One of the night shift nurses here. Her throat was slit so deep it almost cut her damn head off. Most of this," he gestured to the gore coating the walls, "Is arterial spray according to CSU."

Again, something tickled along the inside of Dolly. Something wasn't right.

Frowning, he bent down, prodding one of the paper. It moved slightly, revealing two bloodied signatures, one slanted and the other scribbled, both familiar.

Oh shit.

Glancing over his shoulder, making sure that nobody was watching, he folded the incriminating piece of paper and stuffed it into his pocket.

As he stood, he caught the glimpse of a figure as it melted back into the darkness.

o()o


	18. Chapter 18

o()o

_**Author's Note:** Well, my boytoy is officially being upgraded . . . to husband! Woot!_  
_**Nifty Fact for the Day:** Dublin is considered one of the friendliest places in the world. I'm seriously considering a trip back!_  
_**Special Thanks To:** Archerlove, for her unwavering patience and advice. To Kizume A.W. for actively seeking me out on FB and giving me a swift kick in the butt to write again.  
And to aranatta . . . simply for missing our brainstorming sessions. _

o(18)o

He had promised himself that he wouldn't do this.

For weeks, he had told himself that the further away he was, the safer. That it was for her own good . . . and for his. The absolute right thing to do.

He had almost convinced himself that all those reasons weren't total tripe as well.

Almost.

Dark coat, dark boots and dark hair, Murphy blended easily into the pre-dawn shadows of the apartment buildings. The dim light hid him as easily as it hid the crumbling stucco, chipped paint and tire-destroying potholes of the complex, giving both of them the momentary illusion of being whole.

A familiar rasp and squeak made him focus on the glass door as it slid open and Danae stepped out onto the patio.

A steaming cup held in one hand, the other holding a blanket around her shoulders, she was wearing a pair of ratty pajama bottoms and a t-shirt that he hadn't noticed missing from his wardrobe. Her hair was pulled back into a haphazard ponytail and even in the dim light, he could see that her eyes were red and swollen.

She looked sad and small, so very different from the wry smile he had fallen in love with in a hospital room half a lifetime ago.

Even though, Murphy had never found his girl more beautiful.

Catching his toe on the uneven pavement, he reached for the wall of a dumpster in the shadows, and then found himself hovering there, watching, unable to go forward, but too stubborn to go back. He was still a safe distance away, hopefully the yards between them would keep her from hearing his heart as it pounded heavily against his ribs.

He shouldn't have come.

Sinking into a patio chair, Danae tried, unsuccessfully, several times to pull her knees up to her chin like she always had before giving up and settling on resting her hands over the obstructing swell of her belly with a sigh.

He watched her take a sip from the mug and found himself hoping that it wasn't coffee. Who knows what that toxic crap would do to the baby? _His_ baby. He was going to be a da.

Whatever that meant.

As a child, Murphy was furiously curious about his da. He would pester his mother with an endless string of questions. What did he look like? Was he tall? Did he have blue eyes like Murphy and Connor's own? Did he hate Brussels sprouts too? On and on until his Ma would finally send him out of the house to go play with Connor and the neighbor kids.

As a teenager, Murphy had been simply furious. He'd loathed his father with every ounce of his being and the more his Ma struggled to take care of their small family, the angrier Murphy got until the anger had threatened to eat him alive. Anyone who tried to talk to him was met with either seething rage or outright violence.

Finally, his Ma had taken her surly, wrathful son aside and had talked to him in her own way.

Using and unique combination of gentle motherly tones punctuated with hard cuffs to the back of the head, Annabelle had managed to set him straight. But although Murphy's attitude had improved, his bitterness toward his father had burned well past their first meeting in the U.S.

Was his own child destined to feel the same way about his absent father?

Murphy pressed his lips together as the desire to forsake this mission for the sake of Danae and his unborn son (he had been thinking of it as a son for a while now) coursed through him.

He didn't want his son to grow up that way.

A figure emerged from the darkness, heading directly toward Danae's apartment, and an entirely different impulse shot through Murphy, his hand going to the gun that was holstered at his shoulder. It was too early yet, nobody had any business coming around.

Not legitimate business anyway.

Finger on the trigger, Murphy watched the figure as it passed beside him, unaware. There was something familiar about the hunch of the shoulders, and the shuffling step. Murphy grinned and crept closer, silently slipping from shadow to shadow behind the figure.

"What the fuck do ye think ye're up to?" he growled, landing a heavy hand on the figure's shoulder and resisting the urge to chuckle as Dolly nearly choked on his Nicorette gum.

"Jesus Christ, MacManus!" the detective sputtered, wheeling on him. "You scared the hell out of me Can't you wear a freaking bell or something?"

"T'would make catching the bad guys a might difficult, don't ye think?" Murphy said, reaching into his pocket and offering the other man a cigarette. "What are ye doing here, Detective?"

Dolly plucked the smoke from his fingers, took the offered lighter and sucked in a long drag, "Christ that's fantastic. The gum just doesn't compare." He exhaled in a quiet sigh. "Someone turned the ward where Maire was into a scene from _Slaughterhouse 5_, killed one of the patients there and a nurse."

"Fucking hell." Murphy muttered.

Reaching into his back pocket, the detective produced a crumpled paper. As he attempted to smooth it, Murphy caught a glimpse of a familiar, slanted, signature on the visitor log for room 222 between the rust colored blotches.

"Where's your brother, Murph?" Dolly asked, his tone an awkward cross between apologetic and predatory.

"Inside, I'm sure." Murphy caught himself and tried to cover his mistake with a cough. "I mean, he's been home all night, so he must still be in there with the girls."

"And what are you doing out here?"

Murphy brandished his own cigarette and smiled. "No smoking in the house. Danae would chew my head clean off if I lit up inside."

"I see." A bat swooped through the beam of a street light, looking for its next meal. Both men watched it for a moment, then Dolly sighed. "Want to tell me what the hell is going on here?"

Murphy stiffened. "I wouldn't know."

"That's the biggest line of bullshit I've ever heard. You know the media is blaming you guys. I could lose my job for even talking to you right now."

"Aye."

The silence that stretched before them was full of Dolly's unspoken plea for more information, but there was none to give. Murphy smoked quietly, eyes still trained on the bat.

"Cryptic bastard." The detective sighed finally. "Are you going to let me in or not?"

Murphy shook his head, eyes going back across the expanse of parking lot to the patio. Danae was still there, sipping from her cup, her eyes trained to the sky. The night was quickly coming to an end, and so was his chance to get away, unseen.

Dolly's face was ruddy, a small vein pulsing at his temple."Why the hell not?"

"I'm busy. Connor will let you in."

Dolly frowned at him. "You aren't doing shit for my confidence, here, MacManus.

Murphy flicked his spent cigarette away and reached for another. "Come on, man. You can't really think that . . ."

"I don't know what in the hell to think. All I know is that people are dying and it looks mighty familiar to two guys I happen to have met a couple years back."

"Fuck you, Dolly."

Dolly leaned in, flicking away the butt of his own smoke, and eyeing Murphy from head to toe. "Listen, this isn't the first time adding Mrs. Kensett and your brother together have equaled bloodshed. And Smecker ,that slick son-of-a-bitch, knows it. Right now he's so far up the department's ass that I think I'm going to hide out in yours until this is put to rest."

A rasping squeak compelled both men to silence, watching as Danae got up and went back inside. Her cup sat abandoned on the table, still emitting wisps of steam.

Sighing, Murphy ran a hand through his hair, wishing again that he hadn't come to this place. "Listen, Dolly, someone's out there fucking butchering people. Women. _Children. _The fucking media is blaming us and soon everyone else will be too. It's got to stop."

"And what about the mobsters that keep turning up dead, are you going to protect them too?"

"Fuckin' hell, Man," Murphy half-shouted, then took in a deep breath. "What do you want from me? I thought we were friends."

Dolly looked away, jaw tightening. "We are, but I'm a cop first and foremost. And there's a big difference between criminal douchebags and ten year-old kids."

"You're going to fucking preach to me now? Like I don't fucking _know_ the difference?"

Dolly gave a very slight shrug, but took nothing back.

Murphy's fists were clenched. "It's _not _us. You know us, man."

"I thought I did until last year, now I'm not so sure."

Stepping back, Murphy opened his arms, gesturing the detective toward the apartment. "Go get your information. Connor and I were both in all night last night."

Dolly's eyebrows rose toward his hairline. "You're not coming in?"

"No, I'm busy."

"You don't look all that busy to me."

"I'm attending other matters."

"What kind of other matters?"

"The kind that don't concern you."

With one last huff, Dolly brushed by him. "I can't help if you don't let me in MacManus," he muttered as he walked away.

Murphy watched the him approach the patio, flipping his lighter open. "You couldn't help me anyway."

He turned to leave, and froze, catching a flutter of movement by the window of Danae's apartment.

The window that led into her bedroom.

He running before he had made the conscious decision to move, sprinting toward the shadow. As he got closer he could see someone, hidden in the shadows much like he was, prying at the window frame with a small pocket knife.

It was a kid, he realized closing in, slim, probably looking for some goods he could pawn for cash.

Murphy smiled, he was going to scare the devil clean out of this boyo.

He grabbed the figure by the shoulders, pinning him face first against the pitted stucco. "You better come up with a great fucking excuse for being here or I'm going to blow your brains straight out of your fucking skull," he snarled.

The kid paused. "Not interested in you." His voice was deep, malicious enough to make Murphy rethink his macho strategy.

Instead he slammed the punk's head against the wall.

"Well, I'm certainly fucking interested in _you._ You want ta tell me what the _fuck_ you're doing breaking into this place."

"No." The kid lashed backwards, the blow catching Murphy off guard, narrowly missing his eye. He recoiled, giving the kid another, harder, knock against the wall.

"Cocky piece of piss aren't ye?"

The kid's only response was another strike. This one hit its mark and Murphy tasted blood.

His own fist connected with the kid's temple, snapping his head back and sending the wraparound shades skittering across the asphalt parking lot. "Go rob someplace else," Murphy growled, giving the punk a vicious shove and sending him sprawling on his back.

The cracked leather coat spread around him like a cracked oil slick and Murphy stared, surprised. What he had thought was a skinny kid was actually a skeletally thin man. From the ground, a single eye stared back at him, equally startled.

Blood leached into the socket where the other should have been.

Then the man's startled expression changed and turned into one of recognition. "Saint's alive!" He hissed, lips peeling back in a savage grin.

"What the fuck?"

The man barreled into him, elbow colliding with his midsection and knocking the air from his lungs.

"Bastard!" Murphy wheezed, drawing his gun. He took aim at the stranger's retreating form and fired. The blast of the gunshot echoed off of every wall of the complex announcing Murphy's presence and his lack of forethought. The silencer was laying, useless, back in the black duffel crammed under his hotel bed.

He never got the chance to see if his shot was true. Black spots danced in front of his field of vision, and the strength seemed to drain out of every muscle of his body. His feet slid out from under him, turning him into a boneless heap on the pavement. The fall ignited a flare of pain in his abdomen. Automatically, his hands found the spot and an alarming amount of blood that had sodden his shirt and was flowing steadily onto the ground.

The blade had been so sharp, he hadn't even felt it enter his body.


	19. Chapter 19

o()o

**_Author's Note: _**_Oh, yeah . . . I'm SO back!  
**Nifty Fact for the Day:** While not an snippet of Irish trivia, I think it's pretty neat that the first BDS has a body count of 33, while the second has a body count of 59. I wonder what this trilogys is . . .anybody willing to take a count? LoL!  
_

o(19)o

She had been dreaming about a thick slice of cantaloupe.

It had always been one of her favorite summertime treats and it never ceased to amaze her how quickly the memory of it always came to her. Sweet and juicy, it called to her sleeping psyche images of hot, humid nights, kids with sparklers, and the exhilaration of summer freedom.

Now, muffled voices lured her away from her dream-delicacy and into the chilly darkness of early morning. Snatches of conversation kept her buoyant on the swell of wakefulness, unable to fully return to sleep.

" . . . of course I did, I fucking . . ." Connor's voice was loud at first, then rapidly dropping out of earshot. She could almost see him glancing cagily at the doors and lowering his voice.

"Keep your fucking voice down. . ." a second voice floated in and out, almost familiar, its tone strained enough to make Maire stir, pulling the covers more tightly around herself. ". . . don't want to wake. . ."

"She's not here . . . left not too long after . . . and don't think we won't be talking about that."

Danae, Maire's mind supplied sleepily. They were talking about Danae.

" . . . didn't think I'd been out that long. . . how did you . . ."

"How the fuck do you think?"

" Aye. . . shouldn't have come. . ."

"Fuckin' a right ye shouldn't have. Let me see now . . ."

There was a moment of silence then a low groan that made the hair on her arms stand on end. Maire's eyes snapped open. Something wasn't right.

Kicking off the blankets, she slipped to the door just as a loud thump vibrated the floor beneath her.

"Murph! Fuck! Murphy!"

Heart stuttering, Maire opened the door and stepped into a scene from her nightmares. Bare feet curled beneath him, Connor knelt on the floor, Murphy held in his arms. Murphy was pale, his chest rising and falling too fast.

Her overtaxed brain caught up a moment later and noticed the blood. Covering Connor's hands and the patterned dishtowel he held against his brother's side, it soaked into Murphy's shirt, turning the dark fabric shiny.

"Oh God." It was barely a gasp, but Connor's head snapped up and Murphy opened his eyes.

"Maire." They said in unison, eyes identically wide and startled and for the first time, Maire could see the semblance between the two men.

"What . . ." her voice failed her and it was a full heartbeat before she could try again. "What happened?"

"Just a little scratch." Connor said at the same time Murphy added "Barely even a nick."

Her expression must have mirrored her disbelief because Murphy shoved Connor away and struggled to sit up a little straighter, supporting his weight on the heels of his hands.

Connor gave his brother one last glance, waiting until Murphy gave him a minute nod before rising to his feet. "Maire, darlin', listen . . ."

"How about you worry about what lies to tell me _after_ you stop him from bleeding." Words were strong, but her voice had been reduced to little more than a rush of air. She was having trouble catching her breath.

Murphy snorted, and then winced. Muttering something that sounded suspiciously like "Fuckin' clever woman," he shifted his weight, struggling to his feet. "Just needs a bandage or two, nothing ta worry about."

Connor exchanged a long look with his brother. "I'll get what all we need to fix you up. Murphy, you get into the kitchen and start the water running."

Waiting until Connor had left the room, Maire leveled a finger and Murphy, both comforted and emboldened by the fact that he was upright. If he could stand up, then he could handle getting his butt chewed. "You. Don't move."

Murphy arched an eyebrow, but obeyed for the moment. "Yes Ma'am."

"What the hell really happened to you tonight?"

"I got jumped, guy wanted my shoes."

The lie seemed as blatant on his face as the blood that was smeared on his clothing. "Bullshit," she said. "Connor would have called the police to report it."

Murphy looked like he wanted to laugh, but it quickly contorted into a grimace as his knees buckled and he was forced to catch himself on the doorjamb. He waved her off as she reached out to aid him. "You don't know my brother very well."

She didn't know _anyone_ very well, not anymore, and the sting of his words fueled her. She set her jaw. "Tell me what really happened."

"Look, Maire, some things you're better off not knowin'."

His words sparked a half-formed memory and the world began to tremble beneath her. After a moment, she realized that she was the one shaking. "The last time someone told me that I was better off not knowing, I ended up in a coma for six months." Her words were too fast and too loud for the quiet apartment. She _remembered._ "So cut the crap and tell me what the hell is going on!_" _

Murphy shut his eyes tightly, hunching his shoulders as if to ward off a blow. He sighed, bowing his head. "I'm a Saint."

She blinked at him, frowning. "The saint of _what_, exactly?"

"Not that kind of Saint." Connor's voice startled her and she turned to see him standing in the doorway, several white bandages clutched in his hand, his face drawn. His gaze was trained on Murphy, who seemed to shrink several sizes under the intensity. Then he turned to look at Maire.

"Murphy is one of the Saints of South Boston."

The words hung in the air, sucking all of the oxygen from the room. Maire had demanded the truth of him and he had delivered.

Funny, how she didn't really want it now.

"From the news?" she whispered, stomach churning. She had been watching the news, following the story of the notorious Saints and their homicidal spree with the same curious horror that most people seemed to. "Who've been killing all those families? Those _kids_?"

"No!" Murphy's head jerked up. "That isn't us, someone is out there pretending to be us and we're trying to put a stop to it. We would never hurt innocent people like that."

"Murphy's one of the original Saints, if you will."

She didn't know what an _original _Saint and she didn't really care. Ignoring Connor, focused instead on Murphy's words. "We. Us. _Saints_."

"Aye." Murphy confirmed quietly. "There are two Saints, always have been."

Closing her eyes, she sucked in a deep breath. The man in front of her was a killer, and somewhere out there, was a second Saint, ready to continue on the macabre legacy. A second media supervillian ready to write another story in blood.

"Where's your partner then?" she challenged, hoping to find a hole in the story, something that would make it untrue and redeem Murphy from the fate every newscaster and conspiracy theorist had condemned him to. "Why wasn't he around to protect you?"

Murphy swallowed, eyes glued to the dishtowel in his hands, turning it around to a clean spot and pressing it against his side again. He said nothing and the silence suddenly became a tangible thing, pressing down on her. For a second, she was sure she was going to be sick, she resisted the urge and felt semi-heroic.

A beam of watery sunlight cut through the blinds, illuminating Connor's feet, and a hole in the socks he was wearing. His face was ashen and when he spoke his voice was strained. "We need ta get Murphy cleaned up, darlin'. We can play twenty questions afterward."

"No." Maire said, her voice rising. "Who is it? Where is he? Why isn't he here?"

"He is here." Connor's voice was so low, that Maire detected the words more by the movement of his lips than his actual voice. "I wasn't with him because I quit the mission a long time ago. Murphy didn't."

Shock rendered her mute and tears began to well in her eyes. "No. Not you."

Since waking, Connor had been something solid, dependable, and actual in her ever shifting world. She had come to trust him more than anyone else.

And everything he had told her had been bogus.

He had created an identity out of lies, taking advantage of her lack of memory and forging for her a life that was a counterfeit as his own. Tears spilling, she turned to look at him, praying for some other explanation. Instead she got a shock. The single beam of light had traveled as the sun outside had risen; now lighting Connor's face.

Maire hesitated for a moment, wavering, but then a real memory surfaced, momentarily obscuring the panic in her mind.

Connor, smiling at her in the hospital where Martin had spent his last few days, carefully balanced on crutches, his blue eyes sparkling.

Striking blue eyes.

"_Martin talks about you all the time." she said, beaming, "You've really made an impression on him."_

_Connor chuckled, "Well, he's made quite the impression on myself as well. My room's full of his masterpieces"_

Familiarblue eyes.

Eyes that had become overbright, genuinely grieving when he had offered her his condolences for the loss of her little boy, even as he held her daughter in his arms.

"_I just can't tell ye how sorry I am. He was a great kid. He'll be safe in God's hands."_

Eyes that had watched her with concern when he had taken her in, without question, after her home had been destroyed. Eyes that had been intense as he had told her, in no uncertain terms, that he would look out for her.

_He was the same man that she had met in the hospital all those months ago, the man with the kind smile and a way with children that was almost supernatural. The same man who had spent a majority his own recovery time with her dying son in a display of compassion that was unheard of in this day and age. She wanted to trust him, but for all he had done, he was still a stranger._

"_I'm not about to hurt ye," he said, speaking her thoughts to her, "I need ye ta trust that, even if ye don't trust me."_

Eyes that had been dark with passion when he had made love to her for the first time.

_There hadn't been anyone in Maire's life since Greg, and she was suddenly very aware of her baby belly and the fact that she hadn't painted her toenails in forever._

"_I'm sorry," she stammered, "I don't think this is such a good idea."_

_Cupping the back of her neck, Connor tilted her face up to his. He regarded her for a moment and gave her a sweet smile._

"_Ye're more beautiful than ye know."_

Eyes that had stared at her in bewilderment from behind a black mask after he had killed two men on her doorstep.

Men whose sole mission had been to murder her baby girl.

"_What the fuck are you going to do with that, tee off?"_

"_That's golf." She retorted raising her weapon . "This is a softball bat, and if you even think about budging I'm going to clobber you with it like I did your little friend there."_

. How couldn't she have seen that it was the same man, the same blue eyes? How had she never realized?

Eyes that that been huge and horrified as she had shoved him out of the way, saving him from a bullet that had been meant for her and her alone.

_With a gasp, she shoved him away from her and against the door to his apartment, and just as the sound of a gunshot rang out: deep, echoing, and final._

_Maire blinked at him for a second, before looking down at herself. Connor followed her gaze down to the dark ring that marred her pale shirt and the sudden deluge of blood accompanying it._

Suddenly, where there had been doubts just moments ago, there was now an exhilarating, terrifying rush memories. All the memories were heartbreaking, chilling and tinged with loss, but Connor was in them all in guise or another, from the first time they had met, keeping her safe.

He wasn't only a Saint, he was _her_ Saint. Her own personal guardian angel, and because of that, she felt that she could forgive him almost anything.

She wanted to shout from the rooftop that she remembered. That a small but vital shred of her life had been reclaimed. That in the ongoing war againt the damage the coma had caused, she had just won a major battle. She grinned, tears slipping down her face and looked up.

Into an empty room.

Both brothers were gone, and in their place, a firmly shut kitchen door.

o()o

On the other side of the kitchen door, Connor felt sick.

He'd been dreading this moment since Maire first woke up, and now he found that it was much worse than he ever could have imagined. All of his good intentions, all the months of trying to atone and prove his worth to her had been destroyed in a matter of minutes.

He hadn't been able to face her, fleeing to the kitchen as soon as she had looked away to process his words. The look on her face had still been obvious.

Hurt.

Betrayal.

Disgust.

Turning off the faucet, he sighed, listening for any sound from her. But there was nothing - no swearing, no sniffling, no slam of the front door. Only silence, which told him nothing. And somehow…everything he already knew in his heart.

It was over. He had ruined it all.

"God, I forgot how much . . . I really fuckin' . . . hate this part," Murphy mumbled, easing himself into one of Danae's kitchen chairs and Connor was brought back to the task at hand.

He turned away from door. "I know, man."

"Ye know, I'm not really one ta be giving advice on women, but -"

"You're right, you're not. Now shut up and sit still so I can get a proper look at this." Lifting his brother's shirt, he probed the slice that marred Murphy's fair skin.

"Ow, fuck," Murphy grunted, his teeth clenched. "Think it'll need the iron?"

"I don't know, it's not that wide, but it's fuckin' scary deep." Grimacing, Connor looked a little closer. The cut was insanely clean, almost surgical, and despite the constant pressure, it was still oozing blood. He was caught between the risks of the cut risks the iron.

"No iron then." Murphy decided for him. "Just bandage it tight."

"What if the bastard nicked something important, Murph? What if ye need stitches or the like?"

"If he'd nicked something important then I likely wouldn't be talkin' to you now. Stitches'd just save me a scar . . . kind of a lost cause on this body 'o mine."

"Aye, I suppose." Reaching to grab a bandage, he began to unwind it, ignoring the faint bloodstains from the last time it had been employed. "Tell me again how the fuck this happened?"

Murphy shifted. "Caught some gouger trying to break in, we fought and he fuckin' stuck me."

"And that's it?"

"That's it."

Connor frowned up at his brother. There was no way Murphy could actually expect him to believe such a load of tripe, and yet there he sat, looking straight ahead as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

It has something to do with the Saints.

It was obvious once he thought about it. And the realization stung. Murphy didn't even feel that he could _talk _about these things around him. Connor had become someone who needed to be coddled, too fragile to upset with something so serious.

Murphy was sitting before him, stabbed and bleeding, and yet still trying to cosset his delicate twin brother.

His hurt turned to aggravation. He was not some child who needed to be protected from the ills of the world. He was a grown man and had been right there beside Murphy for every fucking mission they had done.

Except for this one.

Angry both with his twin for his overprotection and at himself for earning it, he poked Murphy's side with a single finger.

"Fuck, man," Murphy yelped, jerking upright in the chair. "Go easy!"

Mumbling a less-than-heartfelt apology, Connor pressed the edge of the bandage against Murphy's ribs.

"Let's get to it."

o()o


	20. Chapter 20

o()O

**_Author's note: _**_Short, sweet and slightly naughty . . . this chapter was originally intended to be mostly smut. However, even with all archerlove's hard work, it still didn't feel right and I scrapped all but two sentences of the sex. LoL! So this chapter is MUCH shorter than I intended, but better quality than the original. :)_

o(20)o

Bent over the sink, Connor rubbed his hands together, watching as the water, spattered and then swirled down the drain.

Murphy was sprawled on the couch, forced into slumber by pain medication that had been scavenged from Danae's medicine cabinet, his wound cleaned and bandaged, his bloody clothes properly disposed of.

Straightening, Connor grabbed a rag and turned to survey the kitchen once again. He had been cleaning for the better part of two hours, with no sign of slowing down.

Even though the kitchen had been spotless after the first thirty minutes.

He hadn't even waited for Maire to speak before fleeing into the kitchen, and now he was stuck there, determined to scrub, mop, and wipe until his conscience was as clean as the room.

Too bad it wasn't working.

Unbidden her words echoed in his mind. _Where's your partner then? Why wasn't he around to protect you? _

Why the hell hadn't he been around? Why in God's name had he abandoned his brother to a mission that he had no business trying to do alone? For the last year he had done little more than hide, paralyzed by guilt, and now Murphy was paying the price for his behavior.

He threw the rag back into the sink. Damn it! And damn him. He wasn't a coward and he wasn't about to stand by and let his brother continue this alone. He'd be fuckered if another person got hurt because of his sorry-ass decisions.

Connor squared his shoulders and shoved the door open.

Directly into Maire.

The impact sent her backwards and he reached out to steady her, bravado evaporating. "Christ!" As quickly as he was sure she was on her feet, he let her go stepping away. "Fuck, I didn't even see you."

"I know." She glanced toward the living room, where Murphy was snoring softly. "Is he going to be okay?"

Connor nodded. "It'll take a little time to heal, but he should be fine."

"Good," she said, bobbing her head slightly. "Good." Then she turned back to him, hands going to her hips. "Then we should talk."

"Aye. I guess we should." He refused to look at her, there was no reason to. He already knew what he would see in her eyes.

"You lied to me about who you were." She crossed her arms. "About everything".

The words alone were enough to make him want to fall to his knees and beg for her forgiveness. Instead he ran a hand through his hair. "I know you did."

"I trusted you and you have fed me nothing but bullshit this entire time." There was a slight quaver in her voice, the beginning of tears; more pain because of him. Was he capable of anything else?

"I can't make any excuses for the things I've done, Maire, all I can ask . . ."

"Have you really quit?"

His brain didn't register the question at first and his mouth kept pouring out the words he had been rehearsing for the last two hours. ". . . is that you give me a chance to prove to you that I'm not a monster . . . wait, what?"

"Have you really stopped being a Saint?" she repeated. Her voice was softer, and he could tell that she was trying to look into his eyes.

He made the task impossible. "I have, aye, for a long time now."

"Why?"

"What?"

There was no quaver in her voice now. He chanced a glance at her from the corner of his eye. She didn't look angry or hurt or betrayed. Hands on her hips, eyes dark, she looked almost . . . peeved with him. "I mean, what the hell were you thinking?"

He frowned; this was not the way he's expected this conversation to go. "I, ah . . ."

"You were doing actual good in the world," she continued, and as her voice rose, Connor had a momentary flash of his ma doing the same thing whenever he had done something remarkably stupid and was about to hear all about it.

"You were helping people, saving them."

"Darlin', I . . ."

She didn't let him finish, closing the distance between them to jab a finger into the middle of his chest. "And now you've just, what, given up?" she punctuated each statement with another poke. "You're just going to let someone destroy everything you've worked for and leave your brother to clean up the mess alone?" Poke. "What's _wrong_ with you?"

"Ye're not upset that I was killer," he said slowly, words and thoughts coming together as he finally met her eyes. "Ye're pissed that I quit?"

She sighed, opening her hand to place it on his shoulder. "You saved my life, you saved my _daughter_."

His heart stopped dead in his chest, and the air had suddenly been sucked out of room. "You remember," he managed.

Maire nodded, eyes closed. After a moment she sighed, the sound a mixture of relief and frustration. "I remember _you._"

He reached out, wanting to touch her more than anything. If he did, though, would she suddenly come to her senses and see him for the monster he really was? "I'm a killer."

"You're not a killer, Connor, you're a damn hero."

The words swept through him, searing away months of guilt, pain, and self-pity, burning away everything but the two of them. Connor crushed her to his chest, one hand tangling in her hair the other wrapping around her waist.

And he kissed her.

They shared long, deep, kisses, each one melting into the next. Her hand remained resting against his cheek, fingers stroking the stubble there and Connor would have happily stayed this way for days, savoring the softness of her lips and the way she tasted.

How long had he dreamt of this moment? How long ago had he convinced himself of its impossibility?

"You remember," he murmured against her lips. His hand left her hair to skate down her back. He couldn't get close enough.

"I remember." Maire breathed back, her words tickling his skin, and he knew . . . _He knew . . . _

He was going to make love to her.

"Connor," she managed around his mouth, her arms going around his neck. "I want—"

"Anything. I'll give you anything you want, anything you need."

"I want you."

"You've always had me, Darlin'." Taking her weight into his arms, he lifted her higher so that she could wrap her legs around his waist. He buried his face into her shoulder, loose strands of hair tickling at his nose and lips. She smelled like summertime.

Her hands tugged at his clothing and he chuckled and obliged, carrying her to Danae's guest room.

o()o

He smoothed Maire's hair back from her face with a shaking hand, looking down at the woman beneath him. Pale skin, smattered with freckles, hair splayed over her pillow, eyes large and luminous, watching him expectantly.

She was so beautiful it took his breath away.

"Are ye okay, darlin'?" he asked, brushing his nose along her jaw line, coming back press a kiss against her chin and then her mouth. "It's all right if you aren't ready."

"I'm ready," her voice was soft, but the she grinned up at him, wriggling her hips. "Are _you_ ready?"

The question was a joke, but Connor paused all the same. He was throbbing against the confines of his trousers, but his heart, beating hard and fast against his ribs, was full of so much more than his need for her. Maire's memories were still so new, what if she only remembered half of the story.

He couldn't take advantage of her like that.

Swallowing hard, he skimmed a single finger across the scar that marred her midsection, pushing her hand away when she tried to cover it. He didn't want to do this.

But he did it anyway. "This," he whispered, "was my fault."

"Connor?"

"The men that shot you followed us home from a mission. The bullet was meant for me." The confession was as heavy on his tongue as it had been on his shoulders, but she had to know. He bowed his head, eyes shut tightly, waiting for everything to unravel.

"Oh, Connor," her hand returned to his cheek, stroking gently. "Is that why you always look so sad when you look at me?"

"Every day, I wake up knowing that ye almost died because of me."

"Oh, honey, no. This wasn't your fault. Those men were after me."

He blinked, nonplussed. "You?"

Maire swiped at her eyes even as the tears formed. "You know those pictures of that lawyer in the paper last year?"

Connor nodded, he remembered the story well; the pictures and the newscast that went with them had sparked the Saints' first unsuccessful mission.

What had turned into their last mission.

"Sasha took those pictures when she was out with me. I saw them kill that man." She shuddered, paling. "They followed us home afterward, broke my windows and then burnt my apartment down. If it weren't for you, they would have found us. They would have killed us both."

What she was telling him was unthinkable. Never for a second had Connor allowed himself to think that this entire thing hadn't been his fault, that he hadn't been responsible. The shock was almost more than he could handle, and for several moments he did nothing but stare as his brain tried to adjust, to accept, to _believe. _

"Jesus fuckin' Christ." Intertwining their fingers, he brought Maire's hand to his lips. "I swear I'll keep you safe. I'll die before I let anything happen to you."

"I know," she stretched up and kissed the corner of his mouth, "and I love you for that."

Connor froze shock, staring at her. She couldn't… she didn't… not after what he had done.

But there was no reason for that thought anymore. Maire had not only forgiven him, but absolved him completely.

Slipping an arm under her shoulders he captured her mouth, and the embers that had been banked burst into flame.

Sliding his hands under her body, cupping her and lifting her a little, Connor rolled so Maire was astride him.

Hot and wet, soft as velvet, she surrounded him. His hands found her hips and he reveled in the breathy moans she made as he guided her. Each breath sounded like peace, every quiet moan like redemption.

Then he couldn't think; he could only hold on, hold her, riding the tidal wave of sensation.

Absolved.

Forgiven.

Loved.

o()o

Not. Good.

Nathaniel half-shoved, half-collapsed, into the door of his motel room, leaving a crimson smear on the pressed wooden veneer.

Inside, he staggered to the bathroom and flipped on the switch, waiting for the fluorescent bulbs to buzz to life. Once they bathed the room in their sickly light, he leaned in to examine himself in the mirror.

Blood streamed down his face, stinging in his good eye and tickling inside the empty socket of the other. It dripped steadily off of his chin, soaking into his already stained shirt. Probing the side of his face with two fingers, he could feel the place where the demon had struck him, swollen and still oozing.

Nathaniel grinned. It hurt.

Twisting, he poked a finger into the hole in his jacket, drawing back fingertips further bloodied. His smile faded slightly despite the pain radiating down his arm; he didn't like being shot. Guns were pathetic excuses for weapons and the bullet felt dirty lodged in his shoulder.

Looked like he had a little work to do before paying Slick a visit.

Reaching into one of his many pockets, he pulled out a knife, flipping it open and inspecting it. There were still streaks of blood across the blade, most likely the little Strawberry's, but the edge was still perfectly honed. It would do just fine.

He regarded the knife a moment longer, remembering how neatly Strawberry's porcelain skin had split under the silver, and then plunged the blade into his shoulder, gouging muscle and flesh, prying at the slug stuck there.

His laughter echoed throughout the motel hallways.

o()o


	21. Chapter 21

o()o

_**Author's Note: **This chapter is dedicated to Saoirse Driscoll, who did the right thing, even though it sucked. _

_**Nifty Fact of the Day: **Referring to the "barque of Peter" and "Noah's Ark," the word "nave" is derived from the Latin word for ship, navis, and has come to mean the area where the parishioners sit or stand in a Catholic church. The blue-haired bartender is quoting John 14 I think we started at 14:26. _

**_As an Aside:_**_ A little mysterious, a little otherworldly, the blue-haired bartender is loosely based on a real person, and has been around since Waiting Game where she and Murphy had a talk about love and duty. _

o(21)o

It was a place that meant something different to every person that passed through its wrought-iron gates.

Some found comfort and some came for the pain. Some prayed and some wept. Some poured out their hearts and souls to ears that had been forever deafened and some sat in silence, their thoughts emotions a mystery.

For all that it was designed for the dead; Woodlawn Cemetery was a living, breathing entity, nourished by a surfeit of grief, remembrance, and rumination.

Connor offered it none of those things.

Oh, he had spent countless hours there, as motionless as the marble monolith in front of him, memorizing every facet and flaw. But unlike the others who visited this place, he had no actual business being there. Never had.

But today was different.

The wooden handle was as foreign under his palm as it was familiar, bringing to mind a similar implement used years ago in East Galway. He and Murphy had whiled away two teenaged summers doing construction, helping their Ma make ends meet, developing calluses that had never really gone away, and building a physique that had sent the girls a-tittering when class had started back up in the fall.

Dissimilar to the one he had used in his youth, however, this one was pristine, its handle marred only by the price sticker under his thumb. Purchasing it had been the first stop on his undertaking.

And the easiest by far.

Now the sun was dipping below the horizon and he was alone; it was time to get to work.

He hefted, hesitated, and swung. The blow created a spider web of cracks through carefully chiseled letters and he staggered backwards, a hot bubble of panic rising in his chest. What had he just done?

"Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh _fuck_."

_No. _

She was back at Danae's, sleeping soundly. Safe.

He had held her close, feeling each breath and heartbeat against his skin. He'd held on long after his arm had fallen asleep, stubbornly ignoring the grumbling of past injuries as they had woken and protested such a long time spent in one position. But there had been no ignoring the pull beneath his ribcage and the meaning behind it.

Bending down, he retrieved his makeshift weapon, clenching the handle so tightly his knuckles whitened.

She'd lain against him for hours, head resting on his chest, arm draped across his middle. Her fair hair had created a fan over the dark pillowcase, her lashes a shadowy crescent against her cheeks. The sweater had hidden it, but without it, he could see that she was gaining weight, some of her alarming gauntness returning to the curves she'd had before. She was not only alive, but on the mend.

Another blow obliterated two beveled dates.

The chilly evening was fading into a freezing night, but sweat beaded on his upper lip and dampened his hairline as he lifted and swung, again and again, until the muscles in his back and shoulders screamed for a reprieve.

She wasn't in this place.

Somewhere between blows, the pain faded into the background, replaced with a giddy sort of exhileration.

She'd _never_ been in this place.

Finally, he stepped back and surveyed his handiwork. What had once been a meticulously hewn memorial was now nothing more than a pile of rubble. No single name, date or word remained intact. It would be impossible to glean any sort of information about the person it had once been dedicated to.

Satisfied, he knelt before the ruined monument and selected a piece of rubble. Rough all around except for a single glassy plane and notched with what had once been the letter 'M', it was exactly what he wanted.

Rising to his feet and slipping the prize into his jacket pocket, Connor left the sledgehammer to lie amid the destruction and reached for a cigarette, surprised that his body wasn't bawling for one already. He flicked his lighter to life and the smoke curled into his lungs, but instead of the soothing rush of nicotine, he doubled over coughing.

Eyes watering, nose running, it was a full thirty seconds before he could straighten up.

"Fuckin' hell!"

Connor frowned at the cigarette, still chuffing quietly. There had to be something wrong with it, he had been smoking since he was fourteen, and even with his very first puff, he had never reacted in such a way.

But the smoke was just a smoke.

He brought his hand up for a second try, with the same results. Grimacing, he threw the cigarette down, scrubbing the cherry away with his boot and continued on his way.

The route was so familiar that his feet seemed to guide him to his destination automatically, allowing his mind to wander to what lay ahead. Cracked concrete and flickering neon slipped by, mostly unnoticed.

The night air turned his sweaty clothing into a freezing mantle and his heart slowed to heavy, hard thumps that seemed to reverberate through every cell in his body. His previous elation had begun to temper down into grim determination and (although he would never admit it) fear.

One more stop to make.

Then, heavy wooden doors stood in front of him, just as daunting as the headstone he had destroyed.

Maire had absolved him without a second thought. Murphy too. Somehow, he doubted the Lord would be quite so understanding.

Inside, the church looked much the same as any of the others he had attended over the years. The smell of incense mingled with the stronger odor of lemon-scented wood polish. Stained glass windows, depicting various bible scenes shone dimly, backlit by outside streetlamps. Carven saints watched over the flesh-and-blood parishioners who gave them worship. It was a quiet place, a sanctuary for his thoughts.

Sliding into the furthest pew, Connor crossed himself and bowed his head, speaking the first prayer that came to his mind. He came here often, both with his brother and alone. Sometimes he recited the rosary, sometimes he read the passages from the bible, on rare occasion he would light a candle. He went through the motions as diligently as he ever had, as any good Catholic should.

But he hadn't spoken to God in almost a year.

In the front of the church, a small group of three women sat, huddled together, their whispered entreaty permeating the silence. The words were familiar, and Connor recognized one of the prayers Ma had belabored when his Aunt Myrna had first been diagnosed with cancer.

He took a moment to finish the prayer with them and then reached between his knees, grappling in the space under the pew. At first his fingers encountered only emptiness, then brushed something solid. Stifling a curse that would have no doubt landed a divine lightning bolt in his ass, Connor stretched until he could gain purchase on the object, grabbing it and tugging it from its hiding place.

A thick coat of dust had turned the black canvas a frothy gray, and the handles were mashed into wads, but the duffel was still intact, untouched after all this time. Connor felt his mouth twist ruefully. Despite everything that had happened last spring, his twin had still stuck with their long-standing plan.

Everything inside was just as he remembered. Gloves, frayed mask, length of -rope, stray ammunition, a bundle of fifty-dollar bills, and a single gun, its mate having been plucked from a flooded bathroom and disposed of a lifetime ago.

Connor skimmed a finger along the metal barrel, a minute thrill sparking through him. The fear and nausea that he had become so accustomed to around weaponry was absent, and in its place was a more familiar ease and aplomb, an overwhelming sensation of _right._

Hand still resting on the gun, Connor bowed his head. The words came easily to him, much more easily than he had anticipated, the Latin as natural on his tongue as any of the languages he had mastered throughout his life.

"Guide me, oh Lord—"

"_But the Counselor, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you all things and will remind you of everything I have said to you."_

The interruption rang out clear and feminine, spoken by a single figure in the front of the church. Votive flames shone off dark hair streaked with blue and were reflected in the large silver buckles that graced her boots. There was something familiar about her, but Connor couldn't place where their paths had crossed before.

"_Peace I leave with you; My peace I give to you; not as the world gives, do I give to you. Let not your heart be troubled, nor let it be fearful."_

She turned, striking a match and he caught a glimpse of a pierced eyebrow as another votive flared to life.

An image sparked in his brain: her, behind a bar, wiping down glasses as he and his brother drank and joked. Later, she had tossed them out on their arses in favor of microwave lasagna.

He'd been to that bar many times, but had never bothered to learn her name.

"_I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master's business. Instead, I have called you friends, for everything that I learned from my Father I have made known to you."_

The puzzle of where Connor knew her from evaporated from his mind in lieu of the shiver her voice provoked, gooseflesh prickling over his skin. They were alone in the church now, and it seemed as though her words were meant for him alone.

"_You did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you to go and do good— good that will last."_

"Amen," he murmured. "A-fuckin'-men."

Turning away from the candles, she made her way down the nave. Petite, slim, dressed in tight leather pants, heavy black boots and a bustier that left little to the imagination. Her eyes were heavily lined and her nose, eyebrow and ears were pierced. As she passed by, she gave him a broad wink and a surprisingly pretty smile.

"Guess you'd better get to it, huh?"

He stared, flummoxed. Her grin widened. "The Lord works in mysterious ways hon, you of all people know that."

Then, without giving him the chance to respond, she pushed the heavy wooden doors open and stepped out into the night.

Gathering his duffel and his wits, Connor followed suit. It was getting late and more than anything he wanted to be home with Maire and his twin.

The walk back to the apartment complex was quick, his footsteps diverging from the smaller boot prints in the light dusting of snow almost immediately. Hopefully the blue-haired girl was on her way home too.

Sliding open the patio door, Connor walked in on what was almost certainly World War III. He ducked as a bundle of socks went whizzing by with enough force to shatter concrete.

Danae had come home.

O()o

The floor of the elevator was unsettlingly shiny.

Nathaniel stared down at his reflection, flanked by his feet, without really seeing it. His hands were jammed deep in the pockets of his coat, the left curled around the pocketknife he had chosen for the night's outing. It was an older blade, one of his first and favorites, stolen from the man who had created him.

After Nathaniel had yanked it from his cooling corpse.

He had completed the distasteful tasks he had been paid for and had the added pleasure of slipping a knife in between the Saint's ribs. But now he had grown bored and it was time for this game to come to a close.

Slick would not be pleased and he doubted the lawyer would give up the other half of his payment readily.

Nathaniel didn't really care. There were ways around that.

Most of them fun.

The doors slid open with a pleasant-sounding _ding_ and he stepped out onto even more unsettlingly polished tiles. He rounded the corner that led to Slick's office and froze.

The lawyer was not alone.

A sharp spike pierced his chest, an unfamiliar, unwelcome, bolt of feeling.

Jesus Christ on a fucking cantaloupe.

The other man was leaning over Slick's desk, palms pressed against the reflective glass top (why did everything in this fucking place have to be so damn _shiny?_) and even though his face was partially obscured, Nathaniel could his that his features were hawkish with sharp cheekbones and s razor thin mouth. His eyes were the color of slate and Nathaniel knew that, when warranted, they could slice right through you and yank the truth out, raw and bleeding.

His hair was a little longer, showing the first hints of gray, and he had put on a few pounds since the last time they'd encountered each other but there was no mistaking that demeanor. Or that voice.

Paul.

The blade of the pocket knife dug into the flesh of his thumb and he felt his face twist into something that may have been a grin, but felt more like a grimace.

Tucking himself away in a shadowy corner, never doubting his ability blend in with the darkness, Nathaniel was furious to discover that he was shaking.

Memories tried to surface like rotten corpses despite his efforts to submerge them. How long had it been since he'd seen the other man? Years? Decades? He didn't know. He didn't want to know. Remembering was never the answer. Agony was the answer.

Turning the blade within his pocket, he plunged it through his coat and directly into his thigh. The pain should have been the perfect distraction, but this time it only served to enrage him more. Red began to tinge the edges of his vision.

The door swung open and Paul walked out, walked right by him without a second glance, and to the elevator. Nathaniel hissed out a breath, giving the knife a wrenching twist in his thigh and blood began to pool around his boots.

Watching the numbers mark Paul's descent, Nathaniel waited until the LED read 'L' before stalking from his hiding spot and shoving Slick's door open, leaving a large bloody smear across the polished glass.

The lawyer looked up from his stack of paperwork. "What the hell are you doing here?"

The reply was hard to shove by the molten ball of rage in his chest, but Nathaniel managed to grit it out as he jerked the knife from his flesh, freeing it for a much more important purpose.

"Bad move, Slick," he said closing in. "You don't fuck with family."

o()o


End file.
